


The Young King

by sweetautumnwine



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetautumnwine/pseuds/sweetautumnwine
Summary: Killua Zoldyck has just been publicly crowned as the heir to the throne. While his war-hungry father is still very much in control, expectations for the rising king are high. As Killua deals with this newfound stress, Gon, his trusted servant and friend, wants only to make Killua happy.





	1. Chapter 1

_Long live the king._

 

Killua had never seen the grand hall so full of people. Though he had been raised with a clear public presence—straight spine, long strides, a sharp gaze which never lingered on anyone, a smile just sincere enough to appease the masses—he never felt comfortable standing before a crowd. His father, the valiant monarch of their kingdom, had instilled in him the value of distance, sternly and without mercy.

 

 _The people do not need to_ know _us, Killua_ , King Silva had said, long ago. Killua, just six years old, sat on the floor of the dining room, his cheek still stinging from the force of his father’s slap. _They must fear and respect us. We expose only the shallowest parts of ourselves. This is the way of the Zoldyck family, and you must never question it again._

 

As Killua sat on the throne, he could feel the coldness of his eyes as he stared at the tapestry hung above the main entrance. The fabric’s many colors blurred, and he gripped the armrests with his fingernails to ground himself. His headaches had gotten worse ever since his father announced Killua was to be his heir, and there was little the herbalists could do to ease the symptoms.

 

To his left, his father’s eyes slid to Killua for a moment, long enough to convey a simple command.

 

 _Never show weakness to anyone_.

 

Killua straightened and forced his body to relax. His grandfather stepped forward to conclude the official announcement. The words echoed from the arching rafters, ricocheted off the stained glass. As he ignored the formalities, Killua became increasingly aware of the weight of the crown on his head. He’d practiced moving about with it before, paced around his chambers for hours, but that day, it felt heavier, as if his father had laced it with expectations and the threat of repercussion.

 

Sudden applause brought Killua back to the hall. The aristocrats, soldiers, and other townspeople had risen in celebration. Killua rose on cue, nodded in gratitude, then passed by his father, disappearing through the heavy purple curtains.

 

Waiting there with a goblet of cool water was Gon, a common stable boy who’d recently been promoted to Killua’s personal servant. The brightness of the young man’s grin coaxed a genuine smile from the soon-to-be king.

 

“Congratulations, Killua,” Gon said, handing the goblet over. “The crown prince at eighteen. That’s incredible.”

 

“It is tradition,” Silva said, pushing through the curtains with his forearm. “Nothing more. He will be an excellent king, when the time comes, because I have raised him to be.” The sternness in his voice bent Gon’s body, straightened his spine and shoulders. Gon averted his eyes in subordination. Turning to Killua, Silva lifted the crown from his head, tearing away a few strands of tangled hair with it. “We will speak more at dinner. In private.”

 

Killua bowed his head. “Yes, father.”

 

Silva stood still for a moment, watching his son and noting the slight quiver of his lip, the tension in his jaw and fists. Without another word, Silva left, two soldiers flanking him as he began discussing political matters in a hushed tone.

 

Gon was the first to look up, and once he was certain Silva and his supporters were out of earshot, he lay his palm against Killua’s shoulder and sighed in relief. When Killua tensed at the touch, Gon smoothed his fingers over the soft fabric of his tunic and smiled, drawing Killua’s eyes upward.

 

“Your dad’s pretty scary,” Gon said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I forget you’re related, you’re so different.”

 

Furrowing his brows, Killua swallowed and turned away from Gon, shrugging off his hand. “I know,” he said. “I’m nothing like him, and I never will be.”

 

As he realized the miscommunication, Gon laughed nervously and stepped closer. “That’s not what I meant. Killua—”

 

“I have to go.” Killua’s words were mechanical. When he lifted his head completely, his eyes seemed glassy, and Gon took a step back, searching for something in his face.

 

“Killua, wherever you’re going, I’ll come with—”

 

“I’m training with Illumi, and I… I can’t be late.”

 

With that, Killua fled, his feet moving automatically, carrying him to the training grounds. He dropped the goblet in his haste, and the remaining liquid spilled onto the stone. He would apologize to Gon later, he decided, after he’d released some of the tension which had built up. It wasn’t fair to Gon, but Killua couldn’t help it.

 

He’d just been crowned as the rightful heir, the king, and yet he was still as powerless as he had always been. Subpar, weak, and cowardly. He would never please his father. With clenched fists, Killua quickened his pace, trying to suffocate the tightening sensation in his chest and praying that physical exertion would relieve him.

 

Gon watched him leave, one hand still outstretched to stop him but his feet planted firmly in their places. He let his arm fall to his side and busied himself with cleaning up the mess on the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Killua let out a guttural cry as he swung the waster down. He’d insisted on using the practice swords for a reason Illumi couldn’t decipher. No matter what his brother’s intentions were, Illumi refused to relent.

 

With cocked brow, Illumi easily stepped out of its path and countered, hitting Killua’s wooden practice sword with enough force to make his wrist ache. Ignoring the pain, Killua advanced, sweat sliding along the curve of his cheek and dripping from his jaw. He paused for a moment to wipe it away with his shirt sleeve, and Illumi took advantage of the lapse.

 

Dipping his sword into the small space between hilt and hand, Illumi prodded the flesh of Killua’s palm hard enough to garner an involuntary release, and the sword clattered to the floor. Illumi kicked it away. It bounced against the uneven stones, ricocheting off one of the supporting pillars, and spun until stopping several feet away, and Illumi lunged forward, leaking bloodlust.

 

With Illumi’s sword tip now pointed at his throat, Killua shut his eyes, raising both hands in surrender. Illumi stepped back, eying his panting brother for a moment.

 

“You aren’t much fun today,” Illumi said, slipping his sword into the sling on his hip. As he moved toward the far wall where fresh towels had been prepared, the wooden weapon slapped his thigh, but he didn’t seem to mind. “What’s wrong, little king?”

 

Killua’s hands twitched at his sides. His chest heaving, he retrieved his fallen sword and avoided his brother’s eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

 

Patting the sweat off his face, Illumi chuckled, though his stoic expression didn’t falter. “Now that you’ve been publicly crowned as daddy’s favorite, do you think you have _any_ authority over me?”

 

“Please, Illumi.”

 

Illumi frowned. Dropping the towel, he faced Killua again and stalked closer. “Again. Start again. Raise your sword.”

 

Killua lifted his face as Illumi drew his weapon. Involuntarily, Killua took a step back. The malice in his brother’s eyes had taken on an almost tangible form. Gulping, Killua grasped the hilt with both hands, lacing his fingers together to make up for the weakness coursing through his arms.

 

The strum of a lute broke through Illumi’s ferocity, and he stumbled a step, dull eyes scanning the open room.

 

Perched on a wide pedestal which a potted plant had previously occupied was Hisoka, a jester who played many roles, many of which were rarely mentioned. He tuned a string before looking up. “Oh, have I interrupted your duel?”

 

“Hisoka,” Illumi said with an unreadable tone. “When did you arrive?”

 

Plucking at the strings in no particular pattern, Hisoka hummed to himself. “You know I’m not very good with timekeeping,” he mused. “The days blend together, and the nights go on forever.”

 

“Do you want something?”

 

“Me?” Hisoka said in mock surprise, fanning his fingers before his lips to conceal a smile. “I want nothing more than to serve you. Shall I play a song to fuel your battle? I’ve got a lively one just for you.”

 

He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles before inhaling and closing his eyes. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips; it was widely known the man never sang, so the reason for this action was widely debated. Illumi presumed it was simply Hisoka’s perversion, and he knew his guess to be closest to the truth.

 

The fast notes of Hisoka’s lute, though pleasant to an outside ear, sparked something frightful in Killua’s heart. His hands trembled and his head throbbed. As Illumi resumed his pursuit, each step methodical and even, Killua fought the urge to flee. His eyes couldn’t focus on Illumi’s lithe form, his sword, Hisoka’s music and smile. The world seemed to tilt. Illumi raised his sword, and Killua leaned back, the muscles in his legs taut.

 

“Killua!” From the doorway leading into the castle, Gon’s voice pierced Killua’s concentration and released his grip on the sword. Illumi, mid-swing, had not controlled his strength and fought to recoil. As violent and cruel as he was, he would not be labeled as dishonorable for a mere accident.

 

However, the sword still swung, and as Killua turned to meet Gon’s smiling face, the wooden blade met the side of his head.

 

Illumi leapt back, flinging the sword from his grasp and turning a sharp gaze on Hisoka, instructing him silently to cease playing. When Illumi searched for him, the jester had already vanished, leaving only the echo of his last note clinging to the stone walls.

 

As Killua swayed on his feet, Gon ignored the stairs and vaulted over the wall leading down into the training room. Gon reached Killua in time to wrap an arm around his waist and support him. Killua gingerly touched the bleeding wound and winced, then smiled.

 

“I’m fine, Gon,” he said, inhaling deeply. Though he was certainly in pain, Gon’s appearance and the stinging of his injury had cleared some of the fog which had formed in his mind. For the time being, the tightness of his chest had dissipated.

 

But Gon pouted. “You are _not_ fine. We’re going to the infirmary right now.”

 

“Gon—” Killua started, but the resoluted look on Gon’s face made him pause. Rarely did Gon attempt to command Killua; he knew the kind of punishment servants received when they defied authority. Only in times when Killua was stubborn or foolish did Gon stand his ground. Killua knew better than to refute him.

 

Draping Killua’s arm over his shoulder, Gon moved slowly toward the stairs. “Steady, Killua,” he said. “Head injuries are no joke. I’ll give you a lecture once you’re bandaged up.”

 

Stifling a laugh, Killua said, “Yes, yes. Whatever you say.”

 

As they left, Illumi leaned against one of the pillars and pursed his lips, feeling his anger festering, boiling, inside. “That boy is going to be a problem,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Chief herbalist Leorio hunched over his desk as he searched for a salve. “Your father will kill me if that gets infected,” he threw over his shoulder, a snarl clawing up through his throat. “You’d better take care of it.”

 

“I will, I will,” Killua dismissed. The bleeding had stopped, and Kurapika, who had stepped away from his notarial duties to assist Leorio, was busy dabbing away the dried blood.

 

Leorio turned slowly, as a wild animal would, and glared at Killua. “Do exactly as I say. Follow every instruction.”

 

“Yes, I know—”

 

“Every. Single. One.” Leorio had approached the bedside and was nearly close enough to press his nose against Killua.

 

Defeated, Killua nodded. “I promise.”

 

“I’ll make sure he does everything you tell him to,” Gon piped up. He’d been reclining on another cot, waiting for the herbalists to finish their work. “I’ve got to lecture him myself, too.”

 

Leorio pressed his lips into a thin line before speaking again. “Good,” he said, retreating to a comfortable distance. He placed the vial of salve into Kurapika’s hand before retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair and heading toward the door. “Apply that to young Killua’s head and give him the rest to apply later. Detailed instructions are on my desk.” He narrowed his eyes at Killua. “Don’t make us worry so much.” With that, he huffed and disappeared around the corner, down the hallway. In the office, silence persisted as Kurapika lifted Killua’s bangs and smoothed the salve over the skin.

 

“You should be more careful, Killua,” Kurapika said as he wound bandages around Killua’s head. “Leorio seems stern, but he cares for you deeply. He always has.”

 

Feeling guilty, Killua averted his eyes. “I know that.”

 

“He’s been very busy lately,” Kurapika continued, securing the bandage in place. Stepping away from the bed, he sorted through the scattered papers on Leorio’s desk. “This war is brutal. Dozens of soldiers return each day with injuries. Of course, that isn’t your fault, but he’s a little… well, cranky. We’re supposed to take shifts, but I know he’s avoided sleeping so he could care for everyone.”

 

“Leorio’s awfully kind,” Gon said, swinging his legs beneath the cot. “But he’s like an old man.”

 

“He doesn’t know when to quit,” Kurapika said quietly. Shaking his head, he returned to Killua’s side with a smile and an envelope. “Instructions for taking care of your injury are inside. Read them and follow them carefully—or else I’ll have to send Leorio to check on you, and you don’t want that.”

 

Pushing off the cot, Gon scampered over to the end of Killua’s bed. “I’ll make sure he does everything he’s supposed to, and I’ll come tell you if he doesn’t.”

 

Ruffling the boy’s hair, Kurapika allowed himself to laugh. “I can always count on you, Gon,” he said. “Stay by Killua’s side while he’s injured, would you?”

 

Straightening his back and clapping his heels together, Gon proclaimed, “Yes, sir! I won’t leave him even if he wants me to.”

 

Nodding in approval, Kurapika tidied up the desktop a bit before grabbing a basket from the floor. Before leaving, he faced the boys. “Leorio and I will be in the gardens for some time. We’ve got to replenish our supplies. So if you need either of us, that’s where you’ll find us. The other herbalists should be around, as well.” He withdrew a pocket watch from his vest and opened it. “Melody will be returning from her break soon. And take care of yourselves—both of you.”

 

With that, Kurapika offered a curt nod and followed after Leorio. Killua slid off the bed and stood, stretching.

 

“How are you feeling, Killua?”

 

“I told you before,” he said. “I’m fine.”

 

Frowning, Gon moved closer so that Killua was forced to look at him. “You’ve been acting strange all morning,” he said, reaching for Killua’s hand. To his surprise, Killua didn’t resist. Gon smiled as he laced their fingers together and squeezed. “I’ve been worried.”

 

Humbled by his guilt and something unnameable, Killua stared down at their intertwined hands. “I’m sorry, Gon.” That wasn’t what Killua wanted to say, but no other words surfaced. He shook his head at himself, at his inability to communicate with the only person in the castle who seemed to understand him.

 

But Gon didn’t seem to mind. He moved toward the doorway and waited. “You should rest,” Gon said. “Besides, I’ve still got to lecture you, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in public.”

 

Gritting his teeth in something halfway between a grimace and a grin, Killua gathered the items from the herbalists and started after Gon. “Why you little—”

 

“There you are. Mother has been worried sick.”

 

A dark shadow filled the doorway, and Gon stumbled backward. A creature to be feared, the queen loomed over the boys, her face shielded by a dark veil.

 

“Mother,” Killua said. He had leveled his tone and his chin, hiding his contempt. “You didn’t have to visit me.”

 

“My darling boy was injured; you think I wouldn’t come to check on his condition?” As sharp as her concern was, she didn’t enter the room, simply clung to the door frame.

 

Killua moved to Gon’s side so that they both faced the queen directly. “I’m returning to my chambers now, mother. I’ve got medicine from the herbalists, and Gon will accompany me to assure no more harm comes.”

 

Lifting her chin and tilting her neck at an odd angle, the queen inhaled so the air hissed through her teeth. “Where are the herbalists?”

 

“They went to the gardens,” Gon answered. She snaked a hand out, faster than Gon could react, so her palm connected with his cheek. He braced himself against the wall, avoiding further injury, and the queen regained her composure flawlessly.

 

“You must not speak unless spoken to,” the queen recited. “I did not address you, peasant. You have been granted decided liberties with my son, but do not be so quick to disrespect _me_.”

 

Gon cupped his cheek but said nothing. Killua held his tongue, fearful.

 

When the queen relaxed her shoulders, she said, “Killua, go to your chambers and rest. You.” She did not gesture, nor did she move, but the tone of her voice made it clear she was addressing Gon. “Find the herbalists and bring them to me immediately. You are dismissed.”

 

“But mother,” Killua managed to interject. “The herbalists instructed Gon to accompany me—to make sure my injury is tended to.”

 

“I don’t care what the herbalists told you!” she screeched. “I am the queen and your mother, and you will obey me.”

 

Killua closed his mouth and stared into the space where he knew his mother’s eyes were. “Gon is coming with me,” he said. “There are plenty of other servants milling around. One of them can do your bidding. Not Gon.”

 

The tension in the air between them grew heavy, growing palpable against Gon’s shoulders until he found it hard to breathe.

 

The queen broke the silence. “Will you be down for dinner?” she asked in a detached tone.

 

“Have a servant bring it up for me.”

 

“Very well,” she said. “Go rest, Killua.”

 

“Yes, mother.”

 

As suddenly as she had arrived, she left, the room seeming brighter in her absence. Gon rested a hand against the cool stone wall and exhaled fully. With the conversation finally over, Killua regained awareness of the room and turned to Gon, marking the spreading bruise on his jawbone. He lifted Gon’s chin with his finger, gentle as if he were afraid to damage him.

 

“Gon, I’m—”

 

“It’s not your fault, Killua,” Gon said cheerfully. “I spoke out of turn. I got too excited. It doesn’t even hurt anymore!”

 

“You shouldn’t have to be careful,” Killua murmured, running the length of his thumb over Gon’s face so lightly Gon could barely feel it. “It isn’t fair.”

 

The rising pity in Killua’s voice gnawed at something within Gon, and he dismissed it, taking Killua’s arm and guiding him to the doorway.

 

“Now, just because we were interrupted, don’t you think for a second you’re getting out of my lecture,” Gon chided. “You’re going to lie in bed and do nothing but listen.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Killua said with a new smile spreading across his face, easing away the lines of worry etched deeper by the events of the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

“Back in my… homeland, I got in trouble a lot,” Gon said, sitting on the edge of Killua’s four poster bed. He paused. “Do you have enough pillows?”

 

Killua shifted against the mass of pillows separating his back from the headboard and glowered at Gon. “I’m fine, Gon. Continue your story.”

 

“I snuck out all the time,” Gon said, tapping his fingers together. “My aunt tried to keep me inside, but I liked the forest better. I would lose track of time and only realize how far I’d gone when dusk came. Everyone scolded me.”

 

“What does this have to do with me?”

 

Turning sharply to Killua, Gon pursed his lips. “Be patient,” he said. “There was one day that I managed to reach a mountain range that was behind my… my town. My aunt had warned me not to go there—but that just made me want to go even more.” He snickered at this, and Killua felt a tender calmness ease him back against the pillows, his cheeks warm.

 

He watched Gon as the smile faded to a neutral expression. A few moments of silence passed in which Gon stared at the tapestry hung on the wall opposite the window, an unreadable expression stiffening his face. Killua nudged him with his knee from beneath the blankets, and Gon jumped. “And? What happened in the mountains?” Killua asked wryly, grinning.

 

With a bright smile, Gon spread the fingers of his right hand atop the comforter and stared at Killua. “I walked into a foxbear’s territory,” he whispered. “Missed the claw marks on the trees and walked right in. There were cubs. I was young.”

 

“And stupid,” Killua added, eyes wide. “Didn’t anyone teach you better?”

 

A dullness crept across Gon’s gaze, and he shook it away, though not before Killua noticed. “The mountains were off limits,” he said. “That was one of many reasons why. My father— No one ever thought it necessary to tell me explicitly why the forest was dangerous. I had to learn the hard way.”

 

This somber side of Gon was new to Killua. As much as he appreciated Gon’s chipper attitude and reassuring smile, Killua couldn’t help but be fascinated. He leaned forward, ignoring the twinge of pain that accompanied the motion. “What happened next?”

 

“I was trapped,” Gon said. “I’m not sure how it happened, but I remember I was caught between the foxbear and a rockface. I wasn’t very old, or strong, or brave… And I froze up. The foxbear got me here.” He brought a hand to his chest, barely brushing against the fabric. “I’d probably be dead if Kite hadn’t followed me.”

 

“Kite?”

 

Gon grew stiff, then forced himself to relax, turning a bright smile to Killua. “An old family friend. He trained overseas and was a renowned swordsman. He protected me at times.”

 

“Hmm…” Killua mused, staring up at the ceiling. “You had a skilled guardian. I always assumed you grew up poor.”

 

“I did,” Gon answered a little too quickly. He recovered with a cough. “My family just had some... connections. I was fortunate.”

 

Though Killua wasn’t entirely convinced, he decided it wasn’t a matter worth pursuing. “So you got yourself injured because you were ignorant,” Killua surmised. Prodding Gon’s upper arm with his index finger, he pouted. “It’s not a bad story, but what’s it got to do with me? My brother hit me in the head with a wooden sword; that wasn’t my fault.”

 

“Yes, it was,” Gon snapped. Killua sat back against the pillows in shock as Gon’s hands fluttered to cover his mouth. “I’m so sorry—”

 

“No,” Killua said indulgently. “Go on. Please.”

 

Gon inhaled, then positioned himself so that he was kneeling fully on the mattress facing Killua. “You need to be more aware of yourself,” he said.

 

“Aware of myself?”

 

Nodding, Gon continued. “It isn’t your injury that upset me, Killua,” he said. “You’ve been acting strange all day. If you’d been more cautious, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“No,” Gon said, gentler now. He covered Killua’s closest hand with both of his own. “Take better care of yourself, Killua. You’re important—to this kingdom and to me.”

 

At this, Killua felt a bitter taste arise in the back of his throat, and he turned away, gritting his teeth. “I don’t care about the kingdom,” he spat.

 

“Killua…”

 

“I never asked to be king!” The outburst nearly sent Gon backward, but he caught himself with both hands behind him. Killua’s chest heaved. “I don’t want to wage wars and execute traitors and tax peasants. That’s not the kind of person I want to be.”

 

Gon inched closer, wary as though approaching a wild animal. “You don’t have to be like your father, Killua,” he said soothingly. “You’ll make a wonderful king.”

 

A sharp laugh cut through Killua’s parted lips as he straightened, meeting Gon’s eyes. Gon was startled to see how subdued his friend seemed. When Killua had eased back into the pillows, he spoke in a low voice. “Do you know why my father named me the rightful heir?” Gon opened his mouth to answer, but Killua continued. “I’ve got older siblings who are capable leaders, powerful warriors, skilled deceivers. But they weren’t considered. Do you know why?”

 

Silence seeped into the space between them as Gon steadied himself, frightened by the shift in Killua’s tone. “No, I don’t.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Killua said. “You’ve only been here for a year. I must have forgotten that.”

 

Gon’s breath lingered in his throat before he could convince himself to speak. “Killua, what are you—”

 

“Illumi’s killed civilians, innocent people, for fun,” Killua said, silencing Gon. “He was found guilty. Of course, the judge works for us, so we’ve kept it quiet, but there’s always a chance the information could be leaked. My father wants the public to fear us, but not like that. Fear our tactics, our cunning methods, and our wars. Not our crimes. Illumi was eliminated from the throne—though it’s common knowledge he never wanted it. He hates being in the public eye. He would have made a great assassin.

 

“And Milluki would have taken the crown even if he’d had to wrench it from our father’s skull,” Killua went on, the words pouring forth unhindered, “but he was caught embezzling the people’s tax money. He’s confined to his room. I haven’t seen him in years.”

 

“What about the others?” Gon blurted. "You have other siblings."

 

Killua turned his dull eyes on Gon and smiled, though the expression was cold and cruel. “Mother sold Kalluto to a brothel. You won’t hear that in the town market. She didn’t think he was strong enough to be a candidate for the crown, so she got rid of him. He was so young. It could have happened to any of us at any time. Mother's notorious for her cruelty. And they’ve dungeoned Alluka up in the catacombs. They’re afraid of her. Father thinks she’s cursed.” He took a moment to swallow. Gon seized the opportunity to take Killua’s hand in his, and the gesture seemed to restore some of his previous warmth. “I’m all that’s left. They’ll mold me into the leader they want me to be, and I don’t have a choice anymore.”

 

“You aren’t like them,” Gon insisted. “You’ll find a way. You’re kinder, gentler, more sincere. You’ve got a way better sense of humor than any of them— Have you ever even seen King Silva laugh? I don’t think so.” Despite himself, Killua couldn’t help but chuckle. He squeezed Gon’s hand, regaining more of himself as he listened. “You are more than your family, Killua. You will make a great king.”

 

Before Killua could respond, Gon clasped his hands together and leapt off the bed, retrieving the envelope and salve from the herbalist.

 

“Now,” Gon said, “I’ve got to make sure you take care of yourself. So we’ll replace your bandages every few hours, and apply the salve every hour until you go to sleep for the night.” He looked up at Killua from the instructions and beamed. “That doesn’t seem too hard, does it?”

 

Killua failed to respond immediately. He found himself marveling at the brightness of Gon’s eyes and the genuine nature of his smile. _How_ , he wondered, _could this world produce such a creature_?

 

“Killua?”

 

“Ah, yes!” Cheeks flushing, Killua raised a hand to his throat, embarrassed by the squeakiness of his voice.

 

Gon stifled a giggle and coughed to cover it up. He reached for Killua’s forehead and furrowed his brows. “You’re a little feverish,” Gon said, tapping a finger to his lips. “I’ll get you some cool water.”

 

“That’s not necessary,” Killua tried to protest.

 

“I’m responsible for your well-being tonight,” Gon said. “I’ll take care of you.”

 

As Gon smirked and headed for the small basin in the corner of the room, a knock sounded from the door. Gon paused, looking back at Killua for directions.

 

“Ask who it is,” Killua whispered. Gon nodded, then crept closer to the doors.

 

“W-who—”

 

“Canary, reporting,” a voice from the hallway resounded, drowning out Gon’s feeble attempt to communicate. “I’ve brought Killua his dinner, as instructed. Shall I leave it in the hallway or bring it in?”

 

Wide-eyed, Gon shrugged inquisitively in Killua’s direction, prompting a sputtering laugh. Motioning for him to open the door, Killua struggled to compose himself.

 

Canary entered the room bearing a silver platter. Gon closed the door behind her, keeping his back against the wall; they’d entered the castle around the same time, and Gon knew firsthand how able she was in a fight. He had passed the physical exam, certainly, but Canary had broken bones to pass and hadn’t even broken a sweat.

 

Her posture was so rigid, she could have been mistaken for one of the king’s personal guards—had she not been so diminutive in stature. Killua often thought that his father had made a dire mistake in hiring her as a simple servant when her physical abilities ranked above even the most capable soldier in the army.

 

She met Killua’s eyes directly and bowed her head. “Where would you like your dinner, sir?”

 

“You don’t have to be so formal, Canary,” Killua said. “We’re friends.”

 

“I am your servant,” she said stiffly, “nothing more.”

 

With a heavy sigh, Killua said, “Just put the tray on the table by the window. I’ll eat later.”

 

After doing so, Canary stood facing Killua in silence. Gon could feel the sweat trickling down his face but resisted the urge to wipe it away. Such a sudden movement would surely draw Canary’s eyes to him, and while he had done nothing wrong, her attention—and possible fury—were _not_ things he desired to monopolize.

 

“Canary,” Killua said. She raised her chin in recognition. “Is there anything else you needed?”

 

“Yes,” she said. Behind her back, she clenched her fists, the fabric of her shirt bunching slightly at the shoulders. The display of discomfort was almost imperceptible, but both Gon and Killua noticed it. Finally, she spoke. “Your father wishes to speak with you when you are finished with your meal.”

 

“Is he willing to speak with me tomorrow?”

 

“He said he would be in the east wing by the fireplace,” she said. “Waiting for you.”

 

“That’s a no, then,” Killua said. He turned to Gon and motioned him closer. “I suppose I have no choice in the matter.”

 

Canary bowed her head. “I apologize for disturbing your rest, my lord,” she said.

 

Killua dismissed her apology. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Please go inform my father that I’ll be with him shortly. But I would like to enjoy my dinner and the company of a friend first.”

 

Bowing once more, she left like in silence. Gon extended a hand to Killua and helped him rise. They shared a look of mutual reassurance, which led, only naturally, to sympathetic smiles.

 

“You’d better hurry,” Gon said. “King Silva doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

 

“He’ll have to be patient,” Killua answered, peering out the window. “The stars are bright tonight, don’t you think?”

 

“They’re lovely.”

 

Smiling, Killua gestured to one of the chairs at the table. “Care to join me?”

 

Nodding curtly, Gon grinned. “Oh, certainly. If you insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you to everyone who's read my work so far!! Just wanted to say that I appreciate any and all feedback; that goes for compliments (of course) as well as criticism and suggestions. So please don't be shy! Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat between father and son.

The castle seemed strangely empty as Killua navigated his way to the eastern wing. Beneath his feet, the polished stones blended into a sheet of white, stretching endlessly before him. He kept his eyes up to avoid feeling dizzy.

 

Usually, in the evenings, these halls were bustling with servants cleaning up after dinner and finishing their chores and duties before leaving for the night. The silence in their absence was unnerving.

 

Killua forced his legs to move forward anyway.

 

Affectionately referred to as “The Lounge,” the room in which his father waited was a popular place for the servants to gather. Among the smallest rooms in the castle, it contained only a few pieces of furniture. Its prized feature was the fireplace which dominated one wall. In the winter months, its warmth was often sought and treasured.

 

Outside the room, Killua hesitated to reach for the handle. Heat seeped under the door, and though his father was renowned for his stealth, Killua heard the sounds of wine being poured into a chalice, an empty bottle set on a table.

 

“Father,” Killua managed to say, knocking once. The thought of intruding on his father without permission made his hands tremble.

 

“Come in.”

 

Killua swallowed and fought the urge to flee. Instead, he turned the handle and leaned into the solid door, easing it open.

 

Silva stood by the fire, his broad back in shadows. In his left hand, he held a stone chalice, tilting it so that the wine within churned. The flickering golden light caught a few stray strands of silver hair off the king’s shoulder, and from the doorway, Killua noticed the stern shadows cast upward on his father’s face. In the fireplace, the logs shifted, crackling as cinders rose into the high arches of the ceiling.

 

“Have a seat,” Silva said without facing his son. His tone made it clear that this was an order, not an invitation.

 

Killua obeyed, settling into the high-backed armchair, every muscle tensed. From where he sat, his father appeared almost mystical, illuminated by flames, skin stark against the darkness of the room. Silva sipped from his chalice, his eyes watching the fire.

 

By the time Silva set his chalice down beside the empty bottle, Killua ached to escape. Though each tendon and nerve in his body seemed ready to bolt, Killua couldn’t stop the words from falling through his lips.

 

“What did you want to talk about, father?”

 

Silva slid his slitted eyes over to his son. Something burned behind them, but perhaps, Killua thought, it was just the fire reflecting there. As Silva opened his mouth, Killua flinched, awaiting the sharp sting of reprimandation.

 

It never came.

 

Killua opened his eyes to see that Silva had not budged. He stared directly at the fire, unfazed. “You were injured this morning,” Silva said. “Illumi informed me. Did the herbalists take proper care of you?”

 

Lips lodged shut by anticipation, Killua couldn’t speak. He managed to pry them open with determination and speak in an exacting tone, one which did not reflect the uneasy state of his heart. “It wasn’t a bad injury,” Killua said. “And the herbalists did their job well.”

 

“I heard complaints from your mother.”

 

“She complains about everything.” As soon as the words left his lips, Killua stilled, feeling the color fade from his cheeks. He prepared to stutter an apology when his father laughed.

 

Showing a rare smile, Silva said, “That she does, Killua.” His expression returned to normal before he continued. “You’ve had a rough time because of the coronation, haven’t you?” Killua moved to deny the claim, but Silva halted him with a single finger. “I know you have. We’ve put a great deal of pressure on you, and you haven’t been properly trained. You aren’t yet ready to fulfill the duties of a king.”

 

Killua’s throat tightened. It seemed as if the air in the room were filling with smoke, snaking down his throat to choke him. He gripped the edge of the armrests and tried to swallow around the uneasiness, to speak up. Instead, Killua only stare up at his father in terror, the heat of the fire stinging his unblinking eyes.

 

“The time will come for you to complete your training,” Silva continued, turning to face his son for the first time. “You will become a fine leader, capable of commanding armies and laying waste to those who stand in your way.” His lips curled back to reveal teeth, white and glistening. “For now, we must focus on other important tasks. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, father,” Killua said automatically, his tongue forming the words as if commanded to do so.

 

Silva observed his son, noticed the way his eyes darted ever so slightly between himself and the fire, before inhaling through his nose and rolling his shoulders back. “Quite some time has passed since I last fought on the battlefield,” he said. Killua lifted his face, watching his father warily. The tone shift was not something Killua had been prepared for. “To be a skilled tactician, I immersed myself in war. It was all I knew. I studied patterns and weapons, devised new tactics and methods of warfare. In the historical records, they may label me a genius. I wouldn’t mind.”

 

Absently, Silva bent and selected a thick log, stripped of bark, and tossed it onto the fire. A shroud of cinders lifted like smog, blackening into the darkness. Killua wanted to draw his knees to his chest, an impulse he hadn’t felt since he was a young child, made defenseless against a legendary figure he’d had to call his father.

 

“There is more to the throne than fighting,” Silva said, lowering his tone. “We must keep up appearances, and we must deal in more than blood and bounty.” He stoked the fire with an iron poker, breaking off bits of flaking wood. “You are old enough now to understand the importance of your position and rank, Killua. The actions you take from here on will determine how fit you are for the throne.”

 

“Father, I don’t—”

 

“In the coming weeks, we will be hosting a number of princesses, countesses, and other nobility,” Silva continued. “You will entertain them, and at the end of their stays, you will determine whether they are fit to rule by your side.”

 

As his fathers intentions registered, Killua sat up straighter, his breathing irregular. The pain in his head was expected; the ache in his chest was not. “Father, are you suggesting I select…”

 

“A bride, yes,” Silva finished. “The sooner, the better. When the people of this kingdom see that you are allied with another nation, they will rest easy, knowing that you will not act foolishly.”

 

“They all seemed content at the coronation.”

 

“They are foolish when it comes to festivities,” Silva said, stifling a snarl. “They’d celebrate a slaughter if the jester strummed pleasantly enough. And they have. If time passes and you do not make yourself out to be a trustworthy ruler, they will grow wary. We cannot afford dissent.”

 

Killua rose, unsteady on his feet and uncommonly warm, even before the fire. “I don’t see why this is such a priority,” he said. “Give me lessons on the battlefield. Foster my tolerance of poison. Beat me near death if you must.” Clenching his jaw, Killua blinked away the tears which burned along the edges of his eyes. “But do not force me to do this.”

 

“I’m afraid it isn’t an option,” Silva said. “You will hold the marriage interviews, and you will select a bride.”

 

With a defiance that startled even himself, Killua moved past his father and threw open the door. He paused in the doorway and looked back to find Silva staring at him, expressionless. Killua gripped the door handle until his fingers were sore. “I will do no such thing,” he said. “I would rather die.”

 

Purposefully, he fled, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. Alone in the hallway, Killua moved, not registering the sensation of his heels pushing off the stone. He couldn’t calm the racing of his heart, nor could he think clearly. Silva’s words had surprised him, but beyond that, they’d infuriated him.

 

Killua moved faster, his pulse throbbing in his ears and against the skin of his thumbs which curled around his other fingers. No immediate plan arose, no course of action. Killua could think of only one thing to do.

 

He had to go to Gon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Hisoka, the wily jester.

In Killua’s chambers, Gon occupied his time with physical activity. He assured himself he’d tidy up before any of the other servants visited and scolded him for sweating. The quiet of the castle unnerved Gon, made his palms cool to the touch. As time passed, Gon pushed himself harder, praying for an interruption, another distraction.

 

He couldn’t get Killua’s pained expression out of his head.

 

Gon paused in the middle of a push-up, lingering there until his shoulders released and he collapsed, chest first, to the floor. He pressed his cheek to the cold stone and released the air in his lungs. Something didn’t feel right. He wanted to see Killua.

 

“What an interesting position,” a honeyed voice sounded from the balcony, accompanied by a soft, playful tune. “You’ll have to teach me its benefits.”

 

Gon lifted his face, his skin prickling. Perched on the edge of the white railing, as if held up by strings, was Hisoka. With an outstretched hand and a sly smile, he leered down at Gon, the moon silhouetting him with pale light. Delicately, Hisoka dropped down to the balcony, adjusting his pose only to avoid damaging his lute.

 

“Hisoka,” Gon said, pushing himself into a kneel. “What do you want?”

 

Pouting, Hisoka drew closer until he loomed over Gon, dwarfing him. “Why does everyone always suspect I want something?” he asked innocently enough, tilting his neck until it looked, from Gon’s perspective, as if it were broken. As he stared down at Gon, he licked his lips, sending a tremor of disgust through Gon. “Now, while I love seeing you like that, wouldn’t it be better to talk standing up?”

 

Without pausing to think, Gon leapt up from the floor to his feet, cold sweat forming at the back of his neck. Hisoka still towered over him, but the suggestive look in his eyes had dissipated. “If you want to talk, then talk,” Gon said, planting his feet beneath his shoulders.

 

From Hisoka’s vantage point, he noticed how rigidly Gon stood, how his hands remained by his sides, slightly open, as if he were prepared to grab whatever were close enough and make it into a weapon. Hisoka smiled and folded himself onto one of the chairs by the window, one leg tucked beneath. “You’re rather close with young Killua, aren’t you?” he prompted, tracing the seams of his leather shoes, flicking his eyes up to watch for a reaction. None came. Gon stared straight, his lips a firm line. “It’s a wonder how that development occurred. A simple peasant from a faraway land, hired as a stableboy, promoted to personal servant. Quite a story.”

 

“I am fortunate,” Gon said, his voice lower, his tone controlled. The answer jerked Hisoka’s head up. He concealed his own surprise by raising his eyebrows, as if asking for elaboration. “Killua was kind. That’s all.”

 

“‘That’s all?’” Hisoka repeated, enunciated the short syllables, allowing his lips to exaggerate. “Killua favors you, does he not? What a privilege.”

 

“And Prince Illumi favors you; what’s the difference?”

 

A delicious tightness wound inside of Hisoka’s chest like a coiled spring, and he bit his bottom lip to control himself. He forced the air from his lungs and allowed his body to settle before speaking. “Our circumstances are much different, boy,” Hisoka said. “You’ll learn the difference one day. But that’s unimportant.”

 

Before Gon could react, Hisoka had lurched forward, seizing Gon by the collar, his long nails skimming along the tender skin of Gon’s throat. Gon swallowed, but did not resist.

 

“Good boy,” Hisoka purred, stroking Gon’s hair with his free hand. His lute rested on the floor, momentarily forgotten. “What I’ve come to say is this: A day will come when the young king tires of you and casts you off.”

 

“Killua would never.” Gon stayed still, but his words were vehement, stinging with spittle and something even Hisoka couldn’t place.

 

Pressing a finger to Gon’s lips, Hisoka silenced him, the golden color of his eyes molten, glittering. “He will abandon you,” he said. “You will come to bore him, and he will send you back to the streets from whence you came.” Though Gon’s stoicism had persisted, his eyes wavered, and Hisoka’s grin grew. “Are you prepared to face that reality?”

 

“I…” Gon cast his gaze downward, submitting. His heart raced, and he brought a hand up to clutch at his chest, as though he could externally slow the beating.

 

“Gon,” Hisoka said, in a voice that was almost tender. Gon lifted his face. “When he does, you can come to me. Keep that in mind. You will always have me to fall back on.”

 

“But I— But Killua—”

 

As soon as Gon spoke Killua’s name, he regained some sense and clarity, and he yanked himself away from Hisoka’s hold, scraping the jester’s nails along Gon’s throat only enough to leave streaks of red, irritated flesh. He gripped his neck, and feeling no blood, turned eyes of fire and fury on Hisoka.

 

He crouched, at the foot of the bed, his eyes burning; Hisoka considered, for a moment, that the young man looked like a wild animal, and he almost took a step back.

 

But before Gon could move or speak, the door to Killua’s chambers creaked, and Gon straightened, all traces of wild nature vanished. He turned back to mark Hisoka’s location, but the man had already left, seizing his lute so violently a few discordant notes were the only indication he had even been there.

 

“Gon?” Killua pushed open the door almost tentatively. When he entered enough that the moonlight pooled at his feet and tangled in his hair. The pained look which dampened his eyes and tugged at his lips made Gon mute; with thoughts of Hisoka’s dangerous claims in mind, Gon couldn’t muster the courage to speak.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

In the time that Gon blinked, restrained by his fears, Killua had raced toward him, embracing him so forcefully, Gon had to steady himself. With Killua’s hands trembling against Gon’s back and his face pressed against Gon’s chest, Gon didn’t think, just wrapped his arms around Killua and pulled him even closer.

 

“I have to go.” Killua’s voice was muffled, but the words were clear enough. Gon pulled away only enough to prompt Killua to look up.

 

“What do you mean?” Gon asked in a softer tone, as though he were speaking to a wounded creature.

 

It was Killua who broke the embrace, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he moved to his wardrobe. “I have to leave. Now.”

 

“Where? What’s wrong?”

 

“I’m running away.”

 

Gon paused for a moment, studying Killua’s back—the stiffness of the muscles, the frantic motion of his arms—before nodding. “I’ll get the horses.”

 

Killua hesitated, his hands still clutching a tunic. “Are you coming with me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

A sudden panic fluttered in Killua’s chest, and he paced closer to Gon, fear in his eyes. “If anyone in the castle finds out, you’ll be tried for treason. Do you understand? I can’t ask you to do that. You could be killed.”

 

“I’m not doing this as your servant or as a member of this kingdom,” Gon said, clasping Killua’s hands together and spreading warmth to the cold fingers. “I’m doing this as your friend. Now, hurry. Pack your things. I’ll gather supplies and ready the horses.”

 

As Gon turned to go, filled with a newfound sense of determination which nearly washed away the doubt Hisoka had instilled, Killua reached out, snagging his shirt sleeve. Gon said nothing, just turned his face.

 

“Gon, I… I can’t ride a horse.”

 

Gon blinked. “What?”

 

“I... never learned how,” Killua confessed, his cheeks burning. “Father said it wasn’t important at the time, and I’ve had other things to learn like scaling and archery and—”

 

Placing a hand on Killua’s shoulder, Gon responded with the brightest smile he could muster, and Killua felt the shame and fear ease from his body, if only a little. “You can ride with me,” Gon said. “I’ll teach you when we’re in the forest.”

 

“The forest?”

 

“Where else would we run to?”

 

Killua nodded, then released his hold on Gon’s shirt. Before he resumed his search for items to pack, he said, “Thank you, Gon. For everything.”

 

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Gon said, laughing.

 

“Still,” Killua said, pouting. “You’ve done a lot. More than I could ever ask for.”

 

Gon’s smile suddenly felt forced, but he maintained it anyway. “That’s just what friends are for,” he said. “Now finish packing, and meet me in the stables. Be quiet about it.”

 

“For a stableboy,” Killua mused, “you sure have a lot of nerve, ordering me around all the time.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling to show sincerity.

 

Gon shrugged and turned to leave. “I suppose I get it from my family,” he joked, waving over his shoulder before pulling the chamber door shut behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very long chapter, mainly involving a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning for violence in the latter part of the chapter.

As he combed through the mare’s silky mane, Gon’s absent-minded motion grew too rough, and when he yanked the comb through an almost imperceptible knot, the horse snorted, stamping a forefoot on the floor of the stable. Quickly, Gon calmed her with a handful of oats and soft whispers of reassurance, but the aching doubt in Gon’s chest refused to settle.

 

He had tried to be quiet—slipping past the posted guards, appeasing other servants who crossed his path, easing the stable doors open at the exact speed to avoid the creaking of hinges—but he feared that the racing of his heart, the heavy beating which throbbed in his ears, might give him away.

 

He had not anticipated this .

 

With the horse at ease, Gon sat on a bale of hay and clasped his hands together before his nose, staring at the knuckles until they blurred and doubled. Exhaling, he flung himself backward, draping an arm over his eyes.

 

He hadn’t been waiting for long, but with each passing second, Gon’s fear grew. What if the young king had been caught? He would have no way of signalling Gon. What would happen if a guard were to find Gon in the stables, with a horse saddled with survival gear?

 

What if Killua had set him up?

 

Gon shook the thought from his mind as violently as it had appeared. Killua would never. They hadn’t known each other for long, but Gon knew himself to be a good judge of character. The young man that Gon had come to love would never abandon him.

 

 _Love_?

 

The stable door creaked open before halting, and Gon sat up, dismissing the blush and foreign thought at once. Fearful, he debated vaulting into the upper level of the stables, where spiders gathered and ants made their home, but found his limbs locked.

 

“Gon?” The whisper stung, the voice a relief and an unreasonable agony. “Are you in here?”

 

“I’m here,” Gon said, creeping forward. “What took you so long?”

 

Rather than risk making a louder noise, Killua squeezed through the gap left between the door and the frame, brushing off a few splinters when he entered. When he faced Gon, he was smiling.

 

“I wanted to grab some things for you, too,” Killua said, tossing a small satchel to Gon, who caught it easily and peered inside. “A few changes of clothes.” His eyes flickered down to his hands for a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone had softened. “I wasn’t sure what would fit you. I just grabbed some of my old training gear. I hope it’s acceptable.”

 

Gon held the bag to his chest, cursing himself for ever having any doubts, for letting a perverted _jester_ of all people into his mind. “Thank you,” he said, the simple words warm and sweet. When he looked at Killua—how the fabric of his tunic still rose and fell in rhythm with his labored breathing, how his lips were dry and slightly parted, the sheen of sweat beneath his bangs—Gon turned toward the horse to hide his frown. “We should go,” Gon said.

 

Killua remained by the door, eying the horse’s muscular build. He swallowed. “Gon, I have to confess something,” he said.

 

Though in the process of checking the straps and reins, Gon paused, hands hovering above the leather. “What is it?” he asked, leveling his voice.

 

“I lied.”

 

“About what?”

 

Averting his eyes, Killua tried to manage his breathing. Gon turned to him, his face a mask of neutrality. Finally, Killua spoke. “I lied about never learning how to ride a horse.”

 

Gon frowned, knitting his brows together until the action caused his head to hurt. “Why would you lie about that?”

 

Killua ran a free hand through his hair, clutching at the roots, as if to distract from the pink hue of his cheeks. “I’m not very good with animals,” he muttered. “I tried to learn when I was younger—father _tried_ to teach me—but the horse… It reared and I fell off. Something startled it, and it panicked. Broke my leg in that incident.” He laughed at the memory, then winced. “I tried to learn again, much later, but I… I couldn’t do it.”

 

Surprising himself, Gon laughed, stifling it against the mare’s side. Upon hearing the sound, Killua looked toward Gon, his expression hurt. Waving it off, Gon controlled himself, cleared his throat, and nodded. “I’ll teach you,” Gon said. “She’s gentle and brave. She won’t hurt you. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

 

“But—”

 

“You’ll be _fine_ ,” Gon insisted, crossing the distance between them. “She’s a big, powerful lady, but she’s got a good heart.” Taking Killua’s hand, Gon tugged him forward, guiding him. Though Killua hesitated, he didn’t resist, and Gon led him to the mare’s side. When Killus didn’t move, Gon took the initiative and brought Killua’s hand up to her flank.

 

Killua’s face was pale, but he allowed the motion. After a few strokes, he let out a quiet laugh, and continued the action himself, marvelling at the coarseness of the hairs, the warmth beneath the coat.

 

The mare shook her head, rattling the reins. Killua flinched, but Gon’s hand on his back, pressed just firmly enough to register, held him in place.

 

“What’s her name?” Killua asked. Gon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. In the dimness of the stables, moonlight dripping in from the window, Killua was looking at Gon. The fear had fled from his face, and all that remained was curiosity, bright and eager.

 

Gon reached for the mare’s nose and patted her shoulder before hoisting himself up. Shifting forward to allow room behind him, Gon extended a hand down to Killua and grinned. “Her name’s Bubbles.”

 

“That’s a stupid name.”

 

“Just get on the horse.”

 

● ● ●

 

It was a mystery even to them how they fled the grounds without alerting anyone.

 

“My father had the halls cleared of servants when we spoke,” Killua said, glancing back at the fading torchlight. When he faced forward again, he resisted the impulse to lean into Gon—for security. “Perhaps they were all sent home early. The guards’ numbers have been dwindling, as well. Too many rumors. Father’s growing suspicious.”

 

Gon nodded, watching the cobbled road blend into soil and guiding the horse to dodge branches and brambles. While he wanted to respond, his mind was preoccupied with racing thoughts—avoiding injury, navigating in the darkness, listening for pursuers, the treacherous act of stealing the heir, Killua’s hands snug on Gon’s hips—

 

Killua’s _warm_ hands.

 

Gon jerked on the reins too roughly as they neared the deeper parts of the forest, and the mare huffed, slowing. From the force of the motion, Killua’s chest pressed against Gon’s back, a wall of heat engulfing him.

 

“How far are we going tonight?” Killua whispered, the breathy words nestled against Gon’s ear.

 

“Not much farther,” Gon managed. “We’ll stop to eat and sleep.”

 

“Sleep out _here_?”

 

Gon cast a slanted look over his shoulder. “My lord, the wilderness is more accommodating than you might imagine,” he said. When Killua didn’t respond, Gon lowered his voice. “We have to be careful if we don’t want to be found.”

 

Though a look of disgust wrinkled Killua’s face, he sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I trust you know these woods?”

 

“Well enough.”

 

“Are there any dangers we should be aware of?”

 

Gon lifted his chin, searching the sky for answers. “No, I don’t think so,” he said after a moment of thought.

 

“Oh, good.”

 

“Wait,” Gon said, lifting a hand from the reins to catch Killua’s attention. “Forgot about the wolves.”

 

“ _Wolves?_ ”

 

“They shouldn’t bother us, though,” Gon said dismissively. “We wouldn’t be very tasty. Well, _I_ wouldn’t anyway. I’m just a servant. I’d taste like… like suds and soil.”

 

Gon went silent when Killua’s hands pressed harder against his sides, trembling. He stared ahead into the darkness, swallowing the desire to stop the horse immediately, apologize, and comfort the poor, spoiled royal.

 

“Sorry,” Gon said finally, the word soft as it sat in the air between them. “We’ll stay together, and everything will be fine. I promise.”

 

● ● ●

 

They rode onward, carving new paths through the underbrush, the snap of brittle wood marking their trail. Above, the tree cover grew denser; though autumn was well underway, many branches maintained their foliage, making it difficult to navigate by way of the stars.

 

Silence had engulfed them, and Killua had slumped forward some time ago, his forehead resting against Gon’s back. Gon tried not to tense his body, but stress stealthily clawed its way up his spine to cling on his shoulders, weighing him down as if to drag him to the earth.

 

When they came upon a clearing, Gon pulled back on the reins, easing the mare to a stop. Groggily, Killua lifted his head, yawning, and laced his fingers together against Gon’s stomach, settling once more against Gon’s back.

 

Gon held his breath for a moment, thighs pressing hard against the saddle, before sighing in defeat. “Come on, Killua; time to set up camp.”

 

“Is it morning already?”

 

“No, I’d say it’s... Well, it’s hard to tell,” Gon said, squinting up at the sky. “I’m not the best at stargazing. I was trying to follow the moon, but...”

 

Killua blinked his eyes open and looked up. A smile hinted at his lips before expanding. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “And I think you’re right. Should be around midnight, based on the moon’s position. Look! There’s Polaris.” Killua gazed heavenward, and Gon watched him, saw the glow of distant stars spark something in his eyes. Even when Killua frowned, the light didn’t dim. “We haven’t come very far,” he said. “It looks like we’ve barely covered any distance.”

 

“We’ve come far enough,” Gon said, dismounting in a single fluid motion. His legs tingled, readjusting to solid, unmoving ground. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a navigator?”

 

“It seemed like you had everything under control,” Killua said, shrugging. He struggled to lift his leg over the saddle, grasping for the reins to steady himself. Gon offered a hand, failing to hide his smirk, and helped Killua down, supporting him when he wobbled.

 

With Killua leaning against his shoulder, Gon cocked his head and laughed. “So you can’t ride a horse but you can read the stars,” he said. “What a king you are.”

 

“Yeah,” Killua said, smiling in spite of himself. “What a king.”

 

“Come on,” Gon said, standing Killua up straight and dusting imaginary dirt off his shoulders. As he moved further into the clearing, observing the area, he said, “Let’s set up camp.”

 

Killua rubbed his hands together, exhaling on his fingers. “Can we start a fire first? I’ll die of hypothermia before morning.”

 

“No. No fire.” The sharpness of Gon’s voice caught Killua off-guard, and he noticed the stiffness of his back, the tautness of his shoulders. Before Killua could ask, Gon said, “We don’t want to draw any animals. I packed blankets from the stables; they should be enough. If the cold becomes unbearable, we’ll figure something out, okay?” At this, Gon turned back around, his usual cheerfulness replenished, his smile blinding.

 

Nodding, Killua tried to return the smile. “Okay,” he said.

 

As Gon kicked sticks off to the edges of the clearing, Killua dug in the packs on the horse’s back. Blankets were plentiful, as were biscuits and dried fruits. If they rationed their supplies well, they could survive for a week or longer. Killua withdrew a sheathed hunter’s knife and stroked the mare’s neck absently. Gon really had thought of everything. The realization made his head ache.

 

“Killua,” Gon said, drawing his attention. Gon stood in the center of the clearing, a bed of dry leaves at his feet. “Help me set this up?”

 

After briefly touching a finger to his temple, Killua nodded. “Sure thing, Gon.”

 

Killua’s inexperience showed clearly. Though he listened carefully and followed Gon’s careful instructions, in the end, he stood off to the side, watching as Gon deftly tied sticks together at their ends, wedging them into the frigid ground to anchor them. When they took on the shape of two triangles placed a few feet apart, Gon stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

 

From the edge of the clearing, Killua watched, leaning up against the mare’s side, having bonded inexplicably with the horse in such a short period of time. Killua noted the soil clinging to Gon’s arms, the satisfied smile gracing his sweat-dappled lips—how the forest had not dampened Gon’s spirit or shaded his charismatic glow.

 

“Can you get the big cloth from the saddlebag?”

 

At first, Killua didn’t answer. He found himself focusing on the sticks, their sharp edges, the endless shadows cast by the moon which bled into the surrounding forest. He swallowed.

 

“Killua?”

 

Blinking, Killua realized that Gon had stepped out of his line of vision, having moved to Killua’s side. He was peering at Killua’s face at a dangerously close distance, forehead creased with worry. Killua raised his hands and forced a smile.

 

“I’m fine!”

 

“I asked you to get the big cloth, Killua,” Gon said, pacing himself through the words. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

 

Blessed with bravado, Killua planted one hand on his hip and ruffled Gon’s hair with the other. “I’ve never been better,” he said. “Let’s set up camp and get some rest.”

 

“How’s your injury?”

 

Killua reacted by touching the bandage, and when he realized it was dry, he stripped it off, bearing it to Gon. “It’s already healed,” he said. “It was never that bad.”

 

Gon looked at Killua as if he had witnessed a divine act of magic. “How can you be so healthy when you sneak into the kitchen for sweets all the time?”

 

“How did you know that?”

 

“You’re really not that discrete, Killua.”

 

“A-anyway, here’s the cloth,” Killua said, wrenching it from one of the horse’s side bags. She hoofed at the ground, displeased by the lack of tact, but resumed chewing what little green grass remained in the clearing.

 

They assembled the structure in near silence, Gon securing the cloth to the ground with thick iron nails. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Gon allowed himself to exhale fully, glad to be finished.

 

As they stood at the edge of their campsite, a deep rumbling sounded. Killua looked down at his body in shame, hoping to disguise his embarrassment, but Gon still laughed, patting Killua’s cheek in reassurance.

 

“You’re hungry,” Gon said. “Me, too.” He paused, listening to the noises of the forest. “Help yourself to some of the provisions I packed. Save some for me.” At this, he moved past the tiny hut, effortlessly avoiding the fragmented twigs in his path.

 

“Where are you going?” Killua had meant to disguise the concern in his voice, but his tongue betrayed him. He had taken a single step forward, as if to follow Gon.

 

Smiling, Gon said, “There’s a creek just over the hill there. I can hear it. I just want to wash up. I won’t be long.”

 

“But it’ll be cold,” Killua blurted.

 

“It’ll take a lot more than cold water to get rid of me.”

 

Realizing there was no point in arguing, Killua curled his fingers into fists and stroked the mare. “Hurry back,” he said.

 

● ● ●

 

The water was colder than Gon had anticipated, but he poured it on his arms and face regardless, scrubbing long after the dirt had washed away.

 

What was he _thinking_?

 

This plan was dangerous, not to mention stupid. If he were to save his own life as well as Killua’s, he’d have to find some way to bring him back—and make up a damn good excuse in the meantime.

 

Framed by the full moon’s reflection, Gon’s face rippled, the watered image of his worry wrinkling his skin even more. He palmed the smooth stones at the bottom, allowing the gentle creek to flow past his wrists, clear water cresting against his skin.

 

Killua had been right; they _hadn’t_ gone far. Gon had realized his mistake and guided them in circles for some time, mostly while Killua had slept. The phantom feeling of Killua’s warm, almost feverish skin seeping through Gon’s shirt made him splash more water into his face.

 

Teeth chattering, Gon closed his eyes and listened, steadying his heart and breathing until they were quiet enough to blend into the sounds of the forest. It was in the forest that he felt most at home; the natural world had accepted him when other humans didn’t. Nature had a way of crafting unassuming music, melodies which might not be appreciated by anyone but Gon.

 

The rustle of leaves as the wind maneuvered through the trees.

 

Insects chirping, leaping from stem to stem, bending.

 

Burrowing creature surfacing for air.

 

A rabbit in the bushes, sniffing.

 

Water, bubbling down.

 

A horse, running.

 

Bats’ wings.

 

A scream.

 

Gon opened his eyes and leapt to his feet, water still dripping from his cheeks.

 

 _Killua_. 

 

● ● ●

 

Gon had said that wolves wouldn’t be an issue. Gon had said _he_ wouldn’t be tasty.

 

Killua, on the other hand, was sure to be a fine treat.

 

As soon as he had heard the first howl, Killua divulged the shortest path to the stablest tree. He’d climbed up a dozen feet before he realized he’d even moved, the throbbing in his head louder than his thunderous heart.

 

The mare, good and patient, hadn’t moved. She raised her head and shook out her mane, marking Killua’s location with her brown eyes.

 

She didn’t retreat when the wolf slunk into the clearing, jowls dripping, the whites of its eyes jaundiced. The mare watched the wolf, flicked her tail, and looked back at Killua.

 

When the wolf leapt for her, snarling, she didn’t even whinny.

 

Its front claws tore into her flank, ripping through the flesh, and she bucked, raising her front legs in defense. The wolf snapped at her throat, narrowly missing, and settled instead for her chest. She snorted, eyes wild, and kicked at the wolf. One hoof connected with a wet snap, in the center of its chest, and it faltered, skidding along the ground.

 

The mare, bleeding and frightened, fled, forgetting about Killua. Her hooves fell heavily on the earth, fading into the night.

 

Killua, clinging to the branches, couldn’t help but tremble. The wolf picked itself up, head low to the ground, and stalked around the clearing.

 

He hadn’t brought his sword. A foolish mistake—and a dire one. Killua closed his eyes to calm himself, but the wolf’s paws cracked wood and shifted stones loudly enough for the sounds alone to make his heart palpitate.

 

 _Gon_. His eyes opened, and he leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. If Gon didn’t know about the wolf, he’d return only to be attacked. If Killua made noise to distract the wolf, he might be dead before Gon could return. The options weren’t favorable.

 

As Killua contemplated his fate, the wolf launched itself from the ground, reaching with its forepaws, growling as it scraped against the bark for leverage. When the wolf’s teeth glistened only an arm’s length away from Killua’s position, he couldn’t help but cry out.

 

He wanted to climb higher, to keep climbing and never come down, but his body had grown rigid, as if carved from stone.

 

From the other side of the clearing, there came a rustling sound, and Killua’s heart sank. He shut his eyes, clasped his hands, and prayed—to what or whom he didn’t specify.

 

“ _Killua_!”

 

The sound of his name sent a wave of something unnameable through him, and he opened his eyes, allowing a few tears to fall. “ _Gon!_ Be careful!”

 

But Gon wasn’t listening. Gon drew a knife from a sheath which had been hidden beneath his tunic and dipped into a crouch. The stance was unfamiliar, unhinged, and the light in Gon’s eyes seemed to dim. Killua held his breath.

 

The wolf sniffed at the air and turned on Gon, blood stained teeth dripping with pink foamy saliva. Gon didn’t speak, hardly seemed to breathe.

 

Before the wolf could lunge, Gon darted off into the woods, vanishing into the growth. For a moment, Killua felt his throat constrict, but the wolf soon took off after him, bounding forth and growling.

 

The silence which fell upon their absence was sickening. Killua had to grip the branches to keep from keeling forward. The longer he waited, the more anxious he grew. He could hardly feel his fingers, and the ache in his chest began to impede on his ability to function. His head felt foggy.

 

A sharp cry came from the forest, then nothing. Killua couldn’t stay still any longer.

 

He dangled a foot out of the tree, preparing to jump, when a form emerged from the bushes off to his right. When he saw that it was Gon, he nearly fell out of the tree.

 

“Gon.” The name felt alive on his lips. Gon looked up, smiling as usual, and dropped the bloody knife. A smear of blood marred his cheek, but he appeared otherwise as pristine as usual.

 

“I’ll catch you,” Gon said, holding out his arms.

 

Killua wasn’t sure why he trusted him, but he didn’t pause to think. The moments he hung in the air nearly suffocated him, but surely enough, Gon caught him, kneeling on the soil for support. Safe in Gon’s arms, Killua became overwhelmed with emotions and wrapped his arms around Gon’s neck, choking back tears.

 

Gon stroked Killua’s hair, wiping away the wolf’s blood on his face with the back of his hand. “I told you we’d be fine,” he said.

 

“The horse,” Killua muttered. “She ran away.”

 

Rising and bringing Killua with him, Gon nudged his arm gently, teasing. “I thought you didn’t like horses.”

 

“I liked Bubbles,” Killua said, sniffling. Though he often prized his dignity, the time for false appearances had passed. He was alive. Gon was safe. Those facts alone were enough to ease the pressure which had depressed his lungs all evening.

 

Gon laughed. “She’s probably gone back to the castle,” he said.

 

A flash of fear appeared on Killua’s face. “Then they’ll know we—”

 

“We’ll go back in the morning,” Gon said firmly. Killua’s eyes widened. “We’ll say we got lost in the woods while on a ride and a wolf attacked our horse. It’s not much of a lie, and it’ll suffice.”

 

“I can’t go back,” Killua whispered.

 

“You never told me why you wanted to run away.”

 

“And you never told me you had combat training.”

 

The words stung more than Gon had anticipated. He dropped his voice. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s a part of my past that doesn’t need explored.”

 

Killua relented, as if he had never even considered revealing the information to anyone. “My father wants me to pick a bride,” he said.

 

 _That’s all?_ Gon wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Instead, he nodded, tracing circles on Killua’s back. “You’ll find a way to solve whatever problems you’re facing,” he said.

 

Killua couldn’t find the words to say. He rested his cheek against Gon’s head and sighed. Gon shifted his arm so it wrapped around Killua’s waist, supporting most of his weight. His knees has grown weak, his skin pale. Gon pressed a hand to his forehead and marked the signs of a fever.

  


“Come on,” he said, guiding Killua to a nearby tree. “We’ll sleep up here, just in case. I’ll take the first shift. Up you go.”

 

“You sure?” Killua said.

 

“I promised to keep you safe,” Gon said, climbing after Killua. “I don’t intend on breaking any of my promises.”

 

They nestled in the crook of the tree, high above the ground, and Gon secured them by knotting their belts together in place of rope. Killua seized Gon’s arm and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to go back,” he murmured. “But I’ll go back with you.”

 

Gon listened to the steady sound of his breathing, felt the slow beat of his heart as he eased into sleep. He watched the night brighten into dawn, being sure to stay still so as to avoid waking Killua until it was time to leave.

 

“Killua,” he said when the sun glistened in the morning dew. “Good morning.” Killua stirred, still clutching Gon’s arm. “Wake up, Killua. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I would appreciate thoughts on 1) the length of this chapter, 2) the flow/arch of the events in this chapter, and 3) your enjoyment of this chapter. I wanted to vary my writing a little bit, but I'm a little uncertain. As always, thank you for reading!)


	8. Chapter 8

Gon knelt with his bare back to the throne, his clammy forehead pressed to the cool tiles. His forearms trembled with the effort of holding himself up, but he dare not fall.

 

“Thank you for bringing my son home.” King Silva’s words were harsh, unfeeling. Legs crossed as he perched on his chair, he bore an uninterested expression, lax lips and dull eyes as he cracked the whip again. Beads of blood surfaced from Gon’s bruised skin, trickling down his spine and dripping into small puddles on the floor. “And thank you for returning him _safely_.”

 

Gon shut his eyes against the pain. He counted the strokes to ground himself. _34_. The king wouldn’t stop at such an imperfect number. For what felt like hours, this had endured, and Gon felt himself nearing his breaking point. Outside, he knew that the sun lazed toward the horizon, inking the sky with golden hues. When he and Killua had returned in late morning, the king and his guards were waiting. Killua was escorted away, into some deep recess of the castle, and Gon was left with the king, where he remained all the day.

 

Gon buried his fingernails into his palms and controlled the labored action of his lungs. He tamed his thoughts and tried to convince himself that his pain was temporary and would soon be over. _Just until dusk. Until sundown. No longer._

 

Behind him, Silva rose with a motion as fluid as a predatory cat. He descended from the raised platform, his cloak of regal blue billowing back in his wake. As Silva circled Gon, he frowned deeper, a glint of danger in his eyes. “You take punishment well,” Silva observed, and Gon stiffened. “You haven’t cried out once. What kind of training might you have undergone before coming here, I wonder. It must have been grueling, no?”

 

Gon bit his tongue. He’d been reprimanded recently for speaking out of turn. To answer or to remain silent? The impossible choice wound around him, serpentine, and bound his voice. He would not answer until instructed. It must be the safer choice.

 

A lash of the whip proved him wrong, and he tasted blood. Silva loomed over him. The sunlight through the stained glass colored him abstract, split his face into fractions of tessellated light. “Have you lost your ability to speak? Have I struck you dumb? Answer me, boy.”

 

Through cracked lips and hoarse throat, Gon croaked an all-inclusive answer. “No, sir.”

 

When Silva’s knee met Gon’s ribs with a force strong enough to shatter, Gon was reminded of the king’s military prowess, his fabled brutality and dishonorable victories. Gon slid across the floor, his bare skin scraping against the rough patches. Where he stopped, he curved his body in on itself for protection and lay still. He coughed, blood on his tongue, and watched Silva approach, whip still in hand, Gon’s eyes focused on the king’s blood-spattered boots.

 

“You have nothing to confess?” The king knelt by Gon’s form, smoothed the boy’s hair back with a touch that could almost be called tender had his hands not wielded the weapon which bled Gon. He forced Gon’s head back, baring his throat and forcing the boy’s eyes to meet his own. “Nothing? You have considerable willpower, I will grant you that. I am shocked you’re still awake.” He let Gon’s head fall and rose, turning his back on him. “If anything like this morning happens again, I will show no mercy. I will break you, if necessary, at any cost.” He moved away, wrapping his whip into even spirals, then paused. Without looking back, he said, “I am even willing to break my son, if that is what is takes to make you speak. Good day.”

 

Gon curled his fingers against the stone slabs which composed the floor of the hall, fighting to stay conscious.

 

As Silva neared the curtains, he called out. “Canary.” She manifested as though from the dust motes in the air, kneeling upon appearing, head down. “Take him to the infirmary. Have the herbalists treat his wounds. Send in Amane and Tsubone to clean up the blood. I am going to speak to my son at the moment, and I will not wish to be disturbed.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Canary rose only once the king had left, and she strode toward Gon, forcing neutrality. Whether it was utter loyalty to the king or pity she concealed, Gon couldn’t decipher. He tensed as her feet drew nearer, and when she stood over him, he splayed his fingers, tried to push himself up on quivering limbs.

 

“Don’t,” she whispered, kneeling to support him, and her hands were gentle against his chest in spite of the hardened calluses. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

 

He didn’t answer, just shifted some of his weight onto his knees and rested, panting. His vision was clouded. He stayed still, willing his strength to return.

 

“ _Please_.” When Gon tilted his head toward her, he saw the earnest desperation in her eyes. “Let me help you. The king does not want you dead. And neither does Prince Killua.”

 

At the mention of Killua’s name, Gon felt a bitter pang that soured the taste of blood on his tongue. He spit on the ground, heart beating like mad, and when he tried to move again, to rise, he swayed almost to the point of collapse.

 

But she steadied him, pleading. “Stop this. Why are you trying so hard? Nothing good will come of you being severely injured.”

 

“I have my reasons.” He bit the words as he spoke, unable to hold his head up.

 

“I’m sorry, Gon,” she said. “You’ll thank me later.”

 

Before he could move or question, a blunt strike landed at the back of his head. His vision went black, and Canary caught him, cradled him in her arms, before he could hit the ground. 

 

* * *

 

Killua gripped the chains to support his weight and rolled his wrists, keeping them loose. With each passing minute, his mother’s shrill shrieks grew louder, and he longed for respite. The only solace he could grasp was that she was clearly growing weary, pausing for breath after a few seconds and clinging to the wooden chair by the door.

 

“You ungrateful _wretch_!” she cried, storming around the room with arms raised and teeth gnashing.

 

He hung with his bare back to the wall of the dungeon, a notable cut across his chest, still oozing. It wasn’t deep, but the serrated edges left a jagged gash that stung. Perhaps, Killua considered, it had been dipped in poison. The knife with which his mother had slashed him lay on the floor, abandoned in her performative horror.

 

She wouldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t dare. He was immune to the most common poisons, but the symptoms still manifested. He would suffer, but he would live. She knew that well enough to try it.

 

“How could you leave—”

 

“Kikyo, that’s enough.” Silva stood in the entrance, filling the doorway. “Go upstairs and lie down.”

 

She shook her head violently, the breath rattling in her throat. “But darling, he doesn’t—”

 

“That’s enough.” His voice held the careful violence of a warlord, and she lifted her chin in recognition.

 

“Very well,” she said, subdued. “I will see you for dinner. Don’t keep me waiting.”

 

As she turned on her heels to go, Silva stepped aside to allow her to pass.

 

Before she disappeared around the corner, Killua called out. “Mother. I’m sorry.”

 

She paused only long enough to say, “I know you are, Kil. Make sure you get that injury treated.”

 

Killua was surprised by the smile tugging at his lips. It slipped away when he noticed his father was staring at him, holding him captive with his eyes. When he stepped closer, commanding the space, Killua swallowed hard.

 

To his surprise, Silva reached not for Killua but for the cuffs around his wrists, unlocking them with a key so slender it was only visible when it caught the torchlight. “Have you repented?” Silva asked as Killua dropped to the floor. His ankles nearly faltered, but he caught himself, allowing his heels to readjust to a stable floor. “Your mother may have taken things too far.”

 

Glancing down at his chest and probing the wound, Killua grimaced. “Perhaps a little.”

 

“We are concerned,” Silva said. “It isn’t like you to rebel.”

 

“I wasn’t rebelling, Father,” Killua said hastily. “It was an accident. I asked Gon to teach me how to ride, and a wolf attacked us.”

 

“Yes, I heard the same story from him.”

 

The words, spoken casually, froze the blood in Killua’s veins. Gon had had an audience with the king. What other things had he said? How had the king treated him? As much as Killua wished to inquire about the matter, he knew it was best to stay silent about it.

 

Silva continued. “I do find it odd that the wolves were in the area. They usually don’t hunt near the castle. I’ll have my guardsmen investigate, but their knowledge is, admittedly limited.”

 

“Might I suggest sending Kurapika?” Killua offered humbly. “As you know, he is well-read, and perhaps he has studied the fauna of our kingdom more thoroughly than your guards.”

 

Nodding, Silva considered this. “Yes, an informed idea. Very well.” He turned to Killua and offered him a thin cloak. “Go to the infirmary. Get your wound treated, and speak to Kurapika about this. I will send a formal request later, but it would do him well to be aware.”

 

“Yes, father.”

 

“You’re a good boy, Killua, and you have obeyed me well,” Silva said, moving toward the exit. With his back toward his son, he spoke in a level tone dripping with malicious threat. “But do not disappoint us again. Second chances do not come very often.”

 

Massaging his wrists—tenderly around the bruised bones—Killua swallowed. “Yes, father.”

 

Once he was certain his father had left, Killua allowed himself to breathe. He drew the cloak around himself, concealing his injury, and set his destination for the infirmary.

 

* * *

 

Gon, with his back to the doorway, was tugging at the bottom hem of a clean shirt—ignoring the sting of torn flesh shifting under tight bandages—when Killua entered, sweat gathered on his brow.

 

“Leorio!” Killua said, first noticing the herbalist who turned immediately upon being called. “Now, I know what you’re going to say—”

 

“ _What did you do_?” Leorio stomped forward, fury and concern battling for control over his motions. When he stood before Killua, Leorio halted, a hand pressed to his forehead. “No, no. I know exactly what you did. The castle's been buzzing all morning about your little _escapade_. How you got _that_ , however, I don’t know.”

 

Killua shrugged. “Nothing serious. But if you could patch me up, I would appreciate it.” He peered around Leorio to search the room for Kurapika.

 

But Gon appeared in Killua’s vision, and all his casual tones diminished. In the time that Killua had conversed with Leorio, Gon had turned so he was facing the commotion, bearing a gentle reassuring smile. When he saw the drying blood on Killua's chest, his smile faltered. “Killua, what happened?”

 

“Family business,” he said dismissively, though he didn’t bother averting his eyes. He stared forward at the boy whose eyes still held such brightness it nearly blinded Killua, but he couldn’t look away from Gon. He didn’t want to. “It’ll heal. I’ve suffered much worse.”

 

“Down on the bed, your highness,” Leorio instructed, assuming an air of authority. “Don’t do anything unnecessary. Why do you feel the need to cause so much trouble?” Though his words were harsh, Leorio ruffled Killua’s hair and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Didn’t I tell you to take care of yourself?”

 

Bowing his head, Killua said, “You did. Many times. I apologize, Leorio. I will be more careful in the future.” Obediently, he moved to the bed and sat on the edge, allowing his body to sink into the mattress. He tilted his head back and let the air escape his lungs, content with the slight firmness, the stability and comfort.

 

Gon hovered over him with wandering eyes. “You look awful,” he said. Killua would have laughed, but there was no indication of playfulness in the comment. “Does it hurt? What did they do to you?”

 

“Quiet.” Killua glanced toward the door, as though expecting a shadow to eavesdrop. “You never know who’s listening. I’m fine. This is nothing.” He paused to inspect Gon, who appeared weary but otherwise the same. “What about you? My father said he spoke with you.”

 

Gon’s lips twitched and his shoulders tensed, complete control of his body beyond his current capacity. “Yes, we spoke.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

Clenching his fists at his sides, Gon spoke through the tightness in his chest. “He thanked me for bringing you home safely,” he said. “Nothing more.”

 

Even if Killua hadn’t noticed the tension in Leorio’s back as Gon spoke, he would have known Gon’s words to be lies. His father was not a grateful man, nor was he especially benevolent. Whatever had been said between them, Killua suspected the stakes had been high. He decided he would probe Leorio’s mind later; at the price of a few bottles of aged wine, Killua could acquire almost any information, however classified, from the chief herbalist—though he would never do so at the risk of the man’s job.

 

“Well, I’m just relieved that you’re safe,” Killua said, summoning the words from the most genuine part of himself. “While I was with my family, I kept thinking about you to keep me sane. You know my mother—” He again twitched toward the doorway, then relaxed. “—She can rage for hours, screaming until her throat is raw. I don’t listen when she yells. I drown it out. I thought of you and prayed you were well.” He smiled, fighting back tears as he stared at his hands. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you, Gon.”

 

Wilting, Gon dropped to his knees beside the cot and lay his cheek on Killua’s leg, staring through him. “I’m sorry, Killua,” he said. “It’s all my fault.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Killua said, moving to brush Gon’s hair back. “It isn’t—”

 

“It _is_.” Gon’s eyes burned dully, as though a furnace had been lit behind them. He gritted his teeth. “It’s my fault, and I don’t know how I can take responsibility.”

 

“That isn’t your duty.” Killua bent forward, drawing Gon closer and pressing his hands to Gon’s back. Gon held his breath. “You’re dear to me, Gon. Don’t—” The dampness clinging to Killua’s fingers made him freeze, and at once, he pulled away. His fingers were tinged with blood. He grasped Gon’s chin and forced him to look up. “Why didn’t you tell me you were _hurt_!”

 

“Killua, I—”

 

Ignoring all rational thought, Killua leapt to his feet and forced Gon to rise with him. On the same plane, Killua exchanged his grip on Gon’s chin for his wrists and bent him to inspect his back. The wounds, from movement or tension, had bled through their bandages. Gon whimpered at the sudden movement, tears springing to his eyes, and Killua’s hold remained tight but trembled.

 

Leorio rushed between them, trying to wedge them apart. “Don’t move! _Don’t move_. Neither of you are allowed to move.”

 

“I can hear you shouting from down the hallway.” Kurapika stood in the doorway, dressed in noble robes and bearing a stack of parchment. When he saw the situation, he released the papers from his hold and rolled up his sleeves. “What can I do? How can I help?”

 

Killua released Gon, backing up in horror as he looked at his hands, his head pounding. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should not have done that. I shouldn’t have… Gon, did I—”

 

“I’m okay, Killua.” Gon swayed on his feet, and Kurapika stepped in to offer support. “I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry for lying.”

 

“You must lie down,” Kurapika said, guiding Gon toward the other cot.

 

“Wait.” Creeping closer, Killua searched Gon’s face for something he could not easily find. Beside himself, he knelt pressing both hands to the floor. Leorio, flustered, insisted he rise, but the words fell on deaf ears.

 

“Gon,” Killua said, expelling his name with forceful deliberation. “I ask two things. First, if you would grant me your forgiveness.”

 

Unable to help himself, Gon laughed. His familiar smile, a bit strained but true, graced his weary face. He reached out and rested a hand on Killua’s head, disregarding all formality, and stroked the soft locks. “Of course I forgive you,” Gon whispered. “I have nothing to forgive you for.”

 

“Second,” Killua said without hesitation. “Who did this to you?”

 

Gon’s fingers stilled. “I do not wish to tell you.”

 

“Please, Gon.”

 

“I believe you already know.”

 

“I need to hear you say it.”

 

Gon sighed and retrieved his hand, signalling Killua to lift his head. “I will tell you on one condition.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“Do not act on the information I provide.”

 

Killua felt his eyes widen. “What? Are you _mad_?”

 

“It will not benefit you to be rash,” Gon said. “Especially in your current state. I don’t want to keep things from you, but I do not wish to see you hurt yourself any further. You’re so reckless.” The tears that fell from Gon’s eyes surprised them both. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you, Killua.”

 

Overcome by emotion as he was, Gon nearly lost his stability, and Kurapika aided him onto the cot where he lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow.

 

Dumbstruck, Killua sank back onto his own cot. He nodded solemnly. “Gon,” he said. Gon lifted his head enough to see Killua’s face. “Gon, I will not act rashly. You have my word.”

 

Weakly, Gon laughed. “You act so mature sometimes, Killua,” he said, groaning as he raised his arms to rest his head upon. He closed his eyes, still facing Killua with a faint smile. “At times like these, I remember that you really are a prince.” His words faded into the pillow.

 

Kurapika sat on the cot beside Gon and touched his forehead. The boy had fallen asleep, brows furrowed and breathing labored. To Leorio, Kurapika said, “He’s burning up. Do you have anything to lower it?”

 

“I’ll take care of Gon,” Leorio said, already searching his shelves. “Worry about the young prince, if you would. I rather like this job, and I would hate to be executed.”

 

Turning his attention to Killua, Kurapika paled and moved to the cabinet. “Disinfect the wound. Disinfect then dress,” he muttered.

 

Killua continued staring at Gon even as Kurapika fussed over him, occasionally scolding him for having so little regard for his well-being. Only when Kurapika laid Killua down, supporting his back, did Killua regain awareness of his situation. By then, night had come, and Leorio had ventured off, content—though not satisfied—with Gon’s condition.

 

“Ah, Kurapika?” Killua said absently.

 

“Mm, yes?”

 

“My father will send you a letter soon,” he said. “You may be accompanying his guards on an investigation—of the wolves in the forest.”

 

Kurapika processed the information for a moment before nodding. “I will be sure to thank him for the honor and opportunity,” he said. “I wonder why the king would select me. I haven’t done anything.”

 

“You’ve done enough,” Killua said, resting his eyes. “That’s why I recommended you. You deserve the chance to rise in rank. I believe you would do well with power.”

 

Touched, Kurapika smiled as he draped a cool cloth over Killua’s eyes. “Thank you, your highness. I will prove you right.” He moved to the doorway, looking back at the injured two boys, bloodied and weary but still full of spirit. “Please take the time to rest, Killua. You will need it, believe me.”

 

Already slipping into unconsciousness, Killua had no time nor energy to consider Kurapika’s cryptic words. There, in the infirmary, the two of them slept well into the next day, just a few feet apart, and dreamt of nothing but the soothing sound of silence.


	9. Chapter 9

When Gon awoke, among the first details he noticed were the sound of water pouring into a basin and a wet cloth being wrung. The unanticipated texture of parchment against his hands, tucked under his fingers which were laced beneath the pillow, was next. With a stiff and muted groan, he shifted, moving his arms from their position and bringing forth the folded sheet.

 

“Move slowly. I’d rather you didn’t move at all,” Leorio instructed softly, appearing beside Gon. He pressed a hand to Gon’s forehead and nodded approvingly. “Good, your fever’s gone down. While you’re awake, I’ll replace your bandages. It might sting a little, but you’ll have to bear with it.”

 

“That’s fine,” Gon said, yawning. His body felt heavy and stiff, and the front half of his body upon which he was laying was particularly numb. “How long have I been asleep?”

 

As he lifted Gon’s tunic away from his back, Leorio said, “Nearly a full day.” When Gon reacted violently, twisting his neck to peer at the herbalist in shock, Leorio tried to soothe him. “You needed the rest. Now lie back down or your wounds will open again.”

 

Gon obeyed, managing to raise the parchment he’d discovered. The fold was crisp and even, but the parchment bore no writing on the outside. Turning it over in his hands, Gon could make out the imprints of letters, embossed with a sharp yet delicate penmanship still unreadable. Without opening it, Gon said, “Leorio, what is this?”

 

To Gon’s surprise, Leorio stopped moving, still in the motion of peeling the bandages from Gon’s skin. As he resumed, he said, “It’s a letter. For you.”

 

“A letter?” Gon felt his nerves begin to fray, and he swallowed hard when Leorio didn’t answer. “Leorio, do you—”

 

“Read it,” Leorio said. “It’s better if you just… read it. Then you can ask questions.” He shot a quick glance at the other cot where Killua slept on, a peaceful expression resting on his face. In his peripheral, he noted that the door was still shut tightly. “Quickly, if you can. We do not wish the prince to know. Not yet.”

 

Though questions filled Gon’s head, he abstained from asking them and unfolded the parchment while Leorio continued his work.

 

Only a few sentences met Gon’s eyes, but his heart nearly faltered upon reading them.

 

_ We know your secret. No harm will come to you. We will meet once you are well again to discuss further plans. _

 

Hands shaking, Gon felt his lips trembling, overcome with fear. “Who wrote this?” he asked, the words quiet through his cold lips. When Leorio didn’t respond, Gon tried to turn his head around again, tears blurring his vision. “ _ Who wrote this? _ ”

 

Leorio covered the boy’s mouth with a firm hand, easing him back onto the cot. “Keep your voice down. And I told you not to move,” he said tenderly. “You were injured badly, and you must  _ rest _ .” Leorio finished dressing the wounds and perched beside Gon, looking him in the eye as an equal. “The letter wasn’t signed, was it? Leave it to him to be cryptic.”

 

“Who—”

 

“Hush. Kurapika and I composed it, he wrote it,” Leorio explained. “There is nothing to be afraid of. We’re on your side.”

 

Shaking his head, Gon said, “But then… You know what I must—”

 

“That is why we want to meet: to discuss and adapt.” Leorio smiled, pressing a cool cloth to Gon’s forehead. “I know we’re asking a lot, but we need you to trust us. We only want the best for our kingdom and our prince.”

 

Gon’s eyes darted to Killua’s form, the steady rise and fall of his bandaged chest. “I want the same. The best for Killua—and for my kingdom,” he said. “I am willing to speak with you, but only because you’ve backed me into such a corner. You don’t leave me much choice.”

 

Grinning wryly, Leorio bent closer. “This was the only way we could guarantee you’d hear us out,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”

 

Gon dared to bare a smile. “A fair accusation,” he said, sinking back onto the pillow and tucking the letter safely beneath it. “I will meet you in the garden, three days from now, just after sunset.”

 

“Three days?” Leorio said, with an apprehensive look. “Gon, you must be reasonable. If you don’t rest now, you won’t be able to—”

 

“I may not be on the level of the Zoldycks,” Gon said, smiling to himself and closing his eyes, “but I pride myself on my ability to recover quickly. I would not have come here if that wasn’t the case. Three days. This is your only opportunity.”

 

Letting a sigh sag his shoulders, Leorio bowed his head in respect, knowing that Gon was no longer watching him. “I suppose I have no choice but to agree to the terms. Rest well. Kurapika will replace me shortly. While you are in our care, you will be safe.” He lowered his voice, wary of those who may pass by the door and overhear. “You have nothing to worry about, my lord.”

* * *

_ Three Days Later _

 

Killua stormed through the castle, eyes forward facing and unwavering. Any servant who saw his expression cleared a path, cowering near the walls. Dusk was fast approaching. If any pain lingered in his system, any poison, he did not feel it. Only adrenaline laced his blood, and he moved like a beast with purpose.

 

He had been awake. He had heard the conversation, feigned sleep through it all. They had been cryptic, certainly, but what Killua knew was this: They were hiding something, and whatever it was, it was dangerous and he was going to find out. He didn’t allow himself to falter, barely allowed himself time to think. Even so, two words continued to resound in his head:  _ my lord _ .

 

Could Gon be of noble birth? Killua had never considered the possibility. Everything about Gon was rugged and rustic.

 

He kept moving. Dwelling on anything, especially something so foolish, would only hinder his progress.

 

The gardens at the heart of the castle were protected by a thick glass dome which arched higher than the tallest towers. Within, a new world seemed to grow, lush but organized, with massive trees and fertile fruits. Birds made their nests there, as the gardeners permitted, and even in the winter months, the plants flourished.

 

Narrow paths navigated the grounds, separating herbs and spices, rare flowers and fruit trees. Killua didn’t spend much time in the gardens, but when he was younger, he studied there, beneath a willow tree, and plucked petals from its blossoms in spring. The head gardener, Kite, often scolded him, had the audacity to smack his hands from branches, but Killua knew it was simply to foster respect—for the hard work of others and for nature itself.

 

But now that the sun was setting, the gardeners had taken their leave. Others would come later, well into the night, to harvest the plants which drank in moonlight, but for the time being, it was quiet and still.

 

Killua traversed the paths with caution, controlling his breathing and taking deliberate steps. He was skilled at stealth, had nearly mastered it, and though his thoughts were muddled, he focused on his objective. From somewhere up ahead, he heard voices, softened for secrecy and muffled by foliage. As he slowed his pace, he came upon a curve and crept along it, peering through a masque of leaves.

 

There, in a clearing, were four figures. One stood with his face in shadows, leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree. Gon seemed strange, his posture rigid and almost warlike, and though Killua could not see his expression, he feared what it might hold. Two of the figures knelt informally before him, their faces lifted into starlight. Their silhouettes were unmistakable: Leorio and Kurapika. The fourth figure was farther away, intently listening but with her back to the others. Killua recognized Canary at once and struggled to maintain his composure, questioning the implications of the gathering but refusing to act just yet.

 

As he watched, Kurapika rose, motioning for Leorio to follow. Their backs were toward Killua, too. For a moment, he feared Gon would see him in spite of his efforts to remain concealed.

 

Kurapika was the first to speak. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Gon.”

 

Gon nodded, a sliver of moonlight catching on his face. “Again, you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

 

“I apologize,” Kurapika said, bowing his head. He remained in that position as he continued. “You understand the risk we’re taking.”

 

Stepping forward into the light, Gon bore a look of dignity and power which sent a silent shudder through Killua. When Gon smiled, the expression seemed foreign. “Of course I do—and you understand how much I am risking just by speaking with you now. This could jeopardize everything I have worked for, you know.”

 

“We want the same thing, in the end,” Leorio said. “But we will have to compromise.”

 

“How did you find out?”

 

Kurapika glanced away, into the vegetation, with a pinched expression. “I have made use of unsavory informants during my time here,” he said. “As a notary and advisor, it has been my duty to uncover coups and plots—and to smother them before they come to light.”

 

“And yet this time is different,” Gon said wryly.

 

“Yes,” Kurapika said with such conviction, the lone syllable made Killua hold his breath. “We have all decided, amongst ourselves, to assist you.”

 

Gon smirked. “Well, well,” he said, approaching Kurapika with deliberation and total control of every muscle. He appeared, to Killua, like some wild creature of legend, a beast with power in his blood. The haunting words pulsed at the front of Killua’s skull.  _ My lord _ . He refused to consider the possibilities. Gon spoke as he moved, “So you understand what I must do? Where do your loyalties lie?”

 

Kurapika bristled at Gon’s approach, as though uncertain of how to react. “If you want us to pledge to you, we cannot,” Kurapika said, thinking through the words.

 

“I know that,” Gon said, almost gently. “And I believe I know what you wish to discuss. Does it relate to the plans involving Prince Killua?”

 

Hidden by the leaves, Killua knelt on the earth, easing down from his squat, and scraped his fingernails into the soil. His mind whirled. Gon never referred to him with titles. Perhaps he did when Killua wasn’t around; Killua was alive to the possibility, but the exchange made him wary. But beyond the semantic—what plans were they discussing.

 

Recovering his breath, Killua forced his senses to focus on the scene before him and ignored the twinge of pain in his head which urged him to leave. He found a vantage point just as Kurapika managed to answer. “Yes,” he said, the word labored. “Based on what my informant has told me, part of your plans do not coincide with our wishes.”

 

As though bored—possessing a nonchalant air Killua had never seen—Gon said, “Oh? Which parts?”

 

Kurapika clenched his quivering fists by his sides and looked down at his feet. Leorio placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Gon stood idly by, awaiting a response with cocked brow and teasing smile.

 

After swallowing, Leorio straightened his spine and spoke in a clear, level voice. “We cannot allow you to kill Prince Killua.”

 

The headache which overcame Killua was nearly unbearable, and his vision flashed blue-gray, panic threatening to break him. Without thinking, without any conscious consideration, he fell back, maneuvering his body so he could push off the ground and sprint in the opposite direction, desperate to flee. As he moved, his fingers caught fallen leaves and stray twigs, and his boots dug up soil as he scrambled. The conversation went silent, and Killua could not hear anything above his heart beat, the dangerous thudding of blood in his ears. He managed to rise to his feet, unconcerned about whether anyone saw him, when a new figure emerged from nothingness and caught him, a firm arm around his chest and a hand covering his mouth.

 

“Where do you think  _ you’re _ going, little prince?” Hisoka cooed, already dragging Killua back to the others.

 

Gon emerged from around the bend and met Killua’s eyes. All at once, his expression softened, though traces of suspicion and authority lingered. “Killua? What are you doing here?”

 

Killua looked at him with fear, struggled against Hisoka’s hold, thrashed until tears spilled from his eyes and wet his cheeks. Gon’s eyes were suddenly full of pity.

 

“Release him.” The tone of Gon’s voice resonated, reaching Killua’s bones, and Hisoka obeyed almost intuitively, wagging his empty fingers. Gon rushed forward to support Killua, wrapping his arms around Killua’s shoulders and waist. Once he had adjusted his grip, he wiped the tears from Killua’s face and searched his features for  _ something _ . “Killua…”

 

“Who are you, Gon? Really?”

 

The question seemed to hesitate before Gon’s ears, burning his skin when it registered. Gon stiffened. “Do you need to know?”

 

“What are you keeping from me? What are you hiding?” Killua’s voice was soft, and though his heart still ached with fear, he couldn’t help but feel safe in Gon’s arms. “Gon, I—I’m afraid.” He looked up at him through his lashes, found a face he knew but somehow did not wholly recognize.

 

“I’m sorry, Killua.”

 

“You wanted to kill me.”

 

Before Gon could respond, Leorio and Kurapika appeared. Upon seeing the prince, they paled, and Leorio nearly prostrated himself on the spot. Kurapika stopped him, stepping forward. “Prince Killua,” he said, with level eyes and voice. “Hear us out.”

 

“And you knew,” Killua spat, wrenching himself out of Gon’s hold. He panted, and Hisoka easily blocked his only escape. But Killua actively resisted the desire to flee, rooted himself to the earth in spite of the pain. “Do you want me dead, too?”

 

“No!” Leorio said, hissing through his teeth. “Didn’t you hear me say that that was what we  _ don’t _ want to happen?”

 

Killua swayed on his feet, fighting the nausea rising in his throat. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand anything.” He turned to Gon, whose expression had shifted into near neutrality. “Who are you? Can I trust you? Do I even know you at all?”

 

With a heavy sigh, Gon lifted his face toward the sky, staring at the waning moon. “I suppose I should explain everything to you, Killua,” he said, and his smile seemed sad and wistful, his eyes searching for something in the stars. He brought his gaze back down to earth and settled on Killua. “I owe you that much at least. Will you hear me out?”

 

Lacing his fingers together before his chest, Killua managed a nod. “Yes. Yes, I will listen.”

 

Gon smiled, though the expression seemed almost regretful. “Thank you, Killua. Come with me.” He extended a hand toward Killua, who took it without thinking, letting his palm mold against Gon’s as though it was where it had always belonged.

 

Killua treaded cautiously, heightening his senses. The thought of danger had not fled from his mind, and he kept careful track of each individual in his vicinity. As he followed, monitoring his movements, Killua tried to ignore the pain in his head even as it blurred his vision. He bit his tongue to stay focused.

 

By the tree where Gon had previous stood, Gon motioned for Killua to sit, releasing his hand. “I want you to feel safe for the duration of this conversation,” Gon said, turning his back on Killua.

 

_ And after that? _ Killua wanted to ask, but found that fear lodged the question in his throat. As he sat with his back against the trunk, he caught the slight upturn of Gon’s lips, as though he knew what Killua was thinking.

 

In a fluid motion, Gon knelt before Killua, bowing his head and hiding his face, a fist shifting the earth. Killua, with wide eyes, was too stunned to understand. He barely noticed the stiff reactions of the others, save for Hisoka, as Gon spoke. “I have much to apologize for, Killua,” Gon said. “To ask for forgiveness for everything would take weeks. In my time spent here, you have shown me great kindness and consideration. I am truly grateful.”

 

“Gon, what are you—”

 

“Please,” Gon said, without looking up, as though the words pained him. “Please, just let me speak.”

 

Straightening his spine, Killua swallowed and looked down at his friend before him, uncharacteristically submissive. He nodded. “Say what you want.”

 

A short exhale of relief met Killua’s ears, and Gon lifted his head, bearing a soft smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I have not been completely honest with you, but that changes today. Everything must change now.” The latter statement seemed an afterthought, and Gon shook his head to dismiss it. “My name is Gon. I was born to a noble family from the southern kingdom. I... served as a general for a year in my country. You are familiar with our forces, I’m sure. I led our troops to victory two years ago near the coast, against an eastern invader.”

 

He watched Killua’s face for a violent reaction—an expression of disbelief—but none came. Instead, Killua searched Gon’s features for sincerity and found it just on the surface. The hesitations laced throughout Gon’s words made Killua uneasy; Gon was still hiding something. But Killua bit his lip and tried not to react. When Gon did not continue, Killua allowed himself to speak. “The southern kingdom?” he repeated, and Gon nodded. Killua couldn’t help but laugh, bile rising in the back of his throat as he stared helplessly at Gon. “The one with which my father is waging war?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

“I was not aware the southern rulers employed children as generals,” Killua said, levelling his voice and carefully selecting his words. Even as he tried to maintain a calculating tone, his incredulousness burnt through his words. “Does their king have no shame? What ruler sends children to the battlefield and instructs them to lead others to slaughter? Even my father would never act so foolishly.”

 

Gon nodded as though the action caused him great pain. “You have no reason to believe me,” he said, “but I am telling the truth.” At Killua’s neutral expression, Gon said, “Last year, I was publicly renounced for committing heinous crimes; this was a farce. To the people of my country and the officials of yours, I am as good as dead. Telling you this is… dangerous, but you have a right to know. I see that now. I’ve been working toward a goal much larger than myself.” Meeting Killua’s eyes and desperately trying to convey his feelings, Gon said, “I was sent here to find you.”

 

“And to kill me, I presume.” There was venom in Killua’s voice, though it was tinged with a despondent bitterness he could not conceal. “Why are you telling me this? Do you think you have beaten me? You’ve convinced my friends to side with you, and now you think victory is within your grasp? Is that it?”

 

“No,” Gon said harshly, pressing his palm to Killua’s mouth. “But if you aren’t quiet, someone else will hear us.” Killua wrenched away from his hand and shut his eyes. Gon shifted onto his knees and faced Killua directly, laying his hands before him, palms heavenward. “It’s true that I was sent to kill you, but that is no longer the case. I’ve altered my mission.”

 

At this, Killua turned back to Gon, drawn by the pleading tone of his voice. “You have?”

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Gon insisted, a smile curling his lips for a moment. “I could never bring myself to kill you, Killua. Not after all we’ve been through. I… care for you too much. I would sooner die than put you in harm’s way.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Do you really think so?”

 

Killua hesitated, then brought a hand to his forehead and shook his head. “No,” he said breathlessly. “For some reason, I can’t bring myself to distrust you.”

 

“That is a dangerous confession, Killua,” Gon said wryly.

 

“And your confession isn’t?”

 

They grinned at one another.

 

“I have trusted you with my life before, and you have not betrayed me,” Killua said, extending a hand. Gon gripped Killua’s forearm, wrapping his fingers tightly around the flesh. “If you had wanted me dead, you could have killed me in the woods.”

 

“The timing might not have been right,” Gon said slyly.

 

“Do you  _ want _ me to call the guards?”

 

Gon chuckled, releasing his hold. “No, of course not,” he said. “But I don’t think you want to call them either.”

 

“How long do you plan to keep me in the dark?” Killua whispered, leaning forward. “From what I’ve heard, you don’t have much time, do you?”

 

With a sharp, bitter laugh, Gon said, “No, I don’t. I’d even say I’m running out of it. That is why I need you. If I ask you to trust me, will you agree?”

 

“I’d like to hear your plans first,” Killua said, narrowing his eyes. “Blind trust is likely to get me killed, and I don’t think either of us want that.”

 

Gon glanced around at the others, and they obediently moved closer, hair haloed by moonlight. Eyes darting around, Killua tensed, fingers spreading into the soil, legs locked and ready to lunge.

 

“It may take some time to explain it all,” Gon admitted, donning a sheepish expression that Killua knew well. “But what I will say is this: We disagree with your father’s practices and…  _ morals _ , and above all else, we wish to see you on the throne as soon as possible.” Gon grinned. “I told you before that I think you’ll make a wonderful king—don’t you remember? I’ve been waiting for so long for your ascension, and if all goes well, it will happen sooner than anticipated.”

 

Killua’s head throbbed, and he bit the inside of his lower lips, forced his eyes to remain trained on Gon’s face. “Does that mean you want to—to—” He swallowed. “My father?”

 

“We can cover the details later,” Gon said patiently. “If you find anything disagreeable, we will be willing to discuss our options. I do not think we can fulfill our mission without you.”

 

Bowing his head, Killua felt his vision swim, hazy shadows and translucent shapes leaking into his sight. He thought of his father—how naturally his hand curled around the handle of a whip, the bloodlust which only appeared as a glimmer in his eyes, and the gentle way he spoke by the fire, hiding poison behind a tone of pleasantry.

 

Killua lifted his face to meet Gon’s, just a few feet from his own, and nodded in solidarity. “All right,” he said, as though the words had been coated in dust. “What do you want me to do? What do you want from me?”

 

Rising, Gon extended a hand. Caught in starlight and shadows, he looked inhuman, ethereal, and Killua stared up at him, awed and expectant.

 

“With your permission, Prince Killua,” Gon said, splaying his fingers and making no effort to conceal his grin, “we would like to hold you hostage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been in the works for almost a month, so I'm sorry if anything flows weirdly! Thank you, as always, for reading! Updates for this might be a bit slow because I want to work on fleshing out the plot a little more before charging ahead, so thank you for your patience and your readership! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It has been a hot minute since I updated this fic. Thanks for your patience, and I hope this chapter is as enjoyable for you to read as it was for me to write!

Dusk dipped below the mountains as the caravan traveled onward, a lantern swinging from the hook above where Canary perched, reigns in hand. Though she kept her eyes trained on the rocky path ahead, her posture was too rigid, spine straining for straightness and muscles taut with fear. She resisted the impulse to look back, knowing that Leorio and Kurapika flanked the caravan for a reason. Even as the sky grew darker, Canary knew where the kingdom was, could sense its presence, and grew anxious at the thought of pursuit and punishment.

 

They had fled the kingdom. It had almost been too easy. Since his arrival, Gon had made plans to escape regardless of whether or not he completed his mission. The others had put their faith in Gon, trusting him, swearing on their blood that they would work together. They’d sliced their palms in place of a pact. Even Killua, against the admonition of Leorio, spilt his blood, watching Gon’s eyes for the slightest sign of betrayal. He found none—only a slight twinge of compassion which Gon quickly masked—and came to trust his judgment in spite of his fear.

 

So on they rode, through the kingdom’s gates without being recognized, flashing convincingly forged papers at the guards as they raced by. They had shielded their features to the best of their abilities, but there still lurked the possibility that someone had recognized them. For the time being, it was a waiting game.

 

Canary had insisted she take on the task of driving the caravan, and she did so without rest, since just before dawn. She showed no external signs of weariness, but on occasion, she felt her fingers trembling around the reigns, the muscles in her arms straining. Before her, the horses snorted, gray clouds of air expelling from their nostrils, and Canary noticed how their pace had slowed to a near trot, her throat constricting at the realization that they would have to stop for their sake and risk discovery when all she wished to do was lash at the horses’ backs and force them to sprint.

 

Gon crawled forward, resting his arms on a beam of wood separating the driver’s station from the interior. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, startling her. “They likely won’t discover our absence until the morning. However, we _should_ find a place to camp soon.”

 

“But sir—”

 

“The horses are tired, as you’ve already noticed,” Gon said, nodding in their direction. “And you, too, must rest.”

 

She tightened her fists around the reigns, feeling the edges indenting her palms. “I understand that, but—”

 

“Canary, I swear,” Gon insisted, his tone soft. “Their kingdom has plenty of skilled trackers, but we did not make ours an easy trail to follow. This is a well-travelled path, popular among merchants and soldiers; they will not be able to distinguish our tracks from any others.” He reached for her shoulder, placing his palm firmly against the bone. “I know you’re concerned. But I will protect you if necessary. You will not face retribution by their hands, Canary. I will see to it that you are safe.”

 

It went unsaid that she would not return to her kingdom, that she would have to sever all emotional ties to the family which took her in, trained her. She had nothing, and the Zoldycks gave her more than she had ever wanted. Abandoning all that made her sweat, made her tongue swell, and she didn’t speak.

 

Noticing her hesitation, Gon said, “You _will_ be safe. I promise. If you ever doubt me, you can hit me with your staff, as hard as you want. I can endure that much.”

 

She wanted to argue, the tightness in her chest clawing at her tongue, seeking escape, but she exhaled all worry before turning back. “I believe you,” she said, forcing a smile. “You’ve proven your worth and your strength. If anyone can save Prince Killua, it’s you.”

 

Gon grinned. “I’d like to think so,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Now, I think it would be best to—”

 

“I’ll find a place to camp,” Canary said, facing forward. “It won’t be long. This mountain has caverns and canyons we can exploit.” She released one hand from the reigns to grip her staff, secured by a thin leather strap on the floor of the caravan, made tight enough only to prevent it from falling onto the road. Its bulbous topper glinted in the dying light, and though Gon could not see her face, he sensed her confident smile in her words. “You can trust me.”

 

He nodded, retreating into the interior. “And so I will.”

 

Entrusting the task to the capable servant, Gon turned back to survey the caravan. They’d gathered only enough supplies for the journey: foodstuff which wouldn’t expire and expansive medical supplies—at the insistence of Leorio, who had managed to lug a heavy trunk from the medical wing and demanded they bring it. How he had avoided detection was a true mystery, but one that neither Gon nor Killua thought to pursue. Leorio had a strange sort of charisma that defied his boorish behavior, and no one dared to question it.

 

Additional cloaks and blankets littered the floor, and in the back corner, they amassed in a mound which shifted rhythmically, the movement almost imperceptible with the rocking of the caravan.

 

Beneath it, Killua clutched at the rough cloth, hiding his face and leveling his breathing. The fabric swaddled him in darkness, impinged his hearing, and though he wanted nothing more than to throw off the blankets and gasp in fresh air, he tightened them around his body, hoping he might disappear in the wake of what might be an incredibly damning mistake.

 

The thought had crossed his mind, had battered in through his skull and bounced relentlessly off the bone. He tried to ignore it, but it persisted until an ache grew and he was forced to press his palms to his head in an attempt to subdue it.

 

What scared him most was the thought of his father. Surely, the king would send his soldiers to find him once his absence was discovered. As much as Silva clearly distrusted his son’s abilities, Killua _had_ only recently been named the heir, and to lose a member of the family when the kingdom was on the cusp of war—he shuddered to think of his father’s anger, pulsing like molten lead through the castle walls.

 

Killua considered that his choice to run away, to be held a willing hostage, had been a flawed one, but in spite of his fear, he realized he didn’t regret the decision. As much as he feared for his safety and the well-being of his party members, Killua trusted Gon for reasons he couldn’t place. He willing placed his life in Gon’s war-worn hands—even if that meant playing into a trap.

 

His head ached, and he kneaded his knuckles into the skin at the back of his neck to dismiss the pain. The more he thought about the situation, the more he felt like he was tracing circular trails, dredging through wet sand and carving a winding path deeper into his own personal hell.

 

Gon’s hand found his shoulder, and for a moment, the pain in his head dispersed, replaced by flashes of light against the darkness of his eyelids. He leaned into Gon’s touch, felt the tension ease from his muscles until his heartbeat no longer labored. He struggled to fill his lungs and dared to speak, keeping his voice low. “Can I take off these blankets yet? I’ll suffocate if I stay in here much longer.”

 

“We’ll be making camp soon,” Gon said. “Stay hidden for a few more minutes.”

 

They’d spoken little since escaping, and though Killua knew it was to avoid suspicion when passing other travelers, he couldn’t help but feel anxious and lonely. The sweat seemed to cake to his skin, and he wondered if he had begun to smell—and if Gon minded. The sudden intrusion granting weight to Gon’s opinion was like a bucket of river water dumped over his head, and he stiffened. There were more important things to consider than one’s tolerance for stench, after all.

 

He noticed that Gon hadn’t removed his hand, that heat spread through the layers of fabric to meet Killua’s skin, and it was though he’d been branded. Even so, he didn’t flinch away or recoil. Gon’s fire was soothing, purifying, as though he alone could strip away Killua’s fears and torments.

 

“Don’t worry,” Gon said. “I know your kingdom has its… _opinions_ on my homeland, but I assure you, I will keep you safe. No harm will come to you while I’m with you. My people are only violent when necessary.”

 

“I think our definitions of necessity are different.”

 

Gon chuckled, smoothing his palm over the ridges of Killua’s shoulder blades, finding them even through the fabric. “Maybe so. But you will seek an audience with the king, and no one would dare risk war when you’ve come in peace, seeking refuge. We have morals just as your people do.”

 

“The _king_?”

 

“Naturally," Gon said, blinking. "How else will we overthrow your father?”

 

Killua had known the plan, noted the implications and hints and how no one spoke directly. But Gon’s bluntness struck him like an arrow, and he was forced to catch his breath. He had been trained in many arts and practices, but sacrifice was not something he could learn so easily. This was the best course of action, and the only one which would guarantee any semblance of truce between the opposing nations. A plan brewed for longevity was not designed with ease or simplicity in mind.

 

“Of course,” Killua said feebly. “I understand.”

 

The caravan slowed, each stone under its wheels more obvious at a decreasing speed, until it stopped completely. Gon patted Killua’s back before tearing away the blankets, and Killua gasped, sucking in air; until then, he didn’t know that simply breathing could be delicious, could renew his energy like a hot meal and long rest.

 

“We’ll stay here,” Gon said, gathering some of the blankets in a mound and pinning them between his elbow and hip. He then sought Killua’s hand and wove their fingers together. “Let’s set up camp. How are your legs?”

 

“Fine.” When Killua rose, he wobbled, but he’d anticipated this and spent much of his time subtly shifting his limbs to keep the blood flowing. “Where are we?”

 

“About half a day away from my kingdom’s capital,” Gon said, guiding Killua toward the front of the caravana. “We covered a great distance. And there are no signs that we have been followed. Rain is coming in the morning, and any lingering tracks will be erased.”

 

Though Killua felt the comforting brush of relief, dejection furrowed his brow. “My father’s forces are not to be underestimated.”

 

“And neither are we,” Gon said, grinning. He crouched low before disembarking, forcing Killua to bend at the waist. “You said you’d put your faith in me.”

 

“So I have.”

 

“Then try not to doubt so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

 

Frowning, Killua followed after and released Gon’s hand once his feet found solid ground. The soil beneath him was dusty and dry; the air tasted much the same, but Killua determined it was far better than the mustiness of the blankets clogging his mouth and sucking moisture from his tongue.

 

He listened to the approaching rhythm of horses, judged their numbers to be two, and forced himself to relax, coaxed by the understanding that it was friends, not foes, who drew closer. Lifting his chin so that his face was parallel with the ground and the sky, Killua inhaled enough to raise his shoulders to his ears; he traced the invisible lines between stars, estimated how long it might take his father’s fastest soldiers to catch up. Hours, maybe. The boundary between kingdoms was not far from either capital, and the world, which Killua hardly knew outside of the castle walls, seemed painfully small.

 

“Sire.” Canary appeared beside him, head bowed in submission. “I’ve started a fire. Please warm yourself by it and rest.”

 

Teeth grinding, Killua straightened and sought her eyes. “What if someone sees the smoke?”

 

As always, her level stare compelled him to settle, as though the roundness of her irises served as sedatives. “We were not followed, and none of the guards are able to see this far; believe me, I know well their capabilities,” she said patiently. With a tender, familial smile, she placed one palm against his shoulder, lingering only long enough to convey comfort. “And if anyone begins to suspect us, we left Hisoka to discourage their doubts; his presence is only to delay the inevitable, but he will buy us time if necessary. I know it’s hard not to worry, but we’re on your side. We’ll see this through to the bitter end. And no matter what, sir, I trust your judgment. I follow you and you alone.”

 

With a nod, she darted past where Killua stood to meet Leorio and Kurapika, reaching up to seize the reins so the men could dismount. He watched them only for a few moments, saw Leorio steady his knees before offering a guiding hand to Kurapika. It had taken little convincing to show Killua he could trust the three of them; they had, after all, supported and cared for him for many years, demonstrated unyielding loyalty to the prince. How funny that he hadn’t noticed the significance in their treatment until now. Always, they respected his father, but they treated him differently, with kindness, even sympathy. These were foreign things in the castle walls; he recognized why he clung to them, and why he prayed they would not betray him. He feared his heart couldn’t take the pain, imagined the muscle shattering like ice.

 

Without dwelling on his worries too much, Killua abandoned the caravan and followed the curving rock wall that hid their campsite, passing under a natural archway of thick red stone. The wall opposite him flashed with light from the fire, and he veered to his left, the chill of night creeping under his clothes to sweat-soaked skin, making him shiver.

 

They did not have the means of crafting a tent, and Gon smoothed out the final blanket before waving Killua over. “We have to make do with what we have,” he said, crouching and splaying his fingers. “Will you be all right?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Killua said, standing in the space between blankets to let the heat lick his face. “I don’t need a four poster bed to survive, you know. It’s not the first time I’ve slept in an uncomfortable place.”

 

The smile Gon bore seemed to sting, pulled at his lips like stitches. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

 

“Not that it’s a bad thing, to sleep outside,” Killua said hastily. “Just different. I could get used to it.”

 

Gon tilted his head, as though looking upon one who was innocent, like a child. “Let us hope you don’t have to, Killua. I don’t believe my people will force you to sleep on the streets. You will be treated with respect in our capital, nothing less.”

 

At this, Killua sobered, sinking down onto the end of the nearest blankets, hands folded between elevated knees. “You speak with confidence.”

 

“I know my people well.”

 

“Our knowledge seems to differ greatly,” Killua said bitterly. “I have heard nothing but tales of horror and seige. My father would tell me stories of battle as he sharpened his blades, and he often grew so furious, the metal would break. He said they were bloodthirsty and reckless, that they cared for no one but themselves as individuals. He called them _savages_.”

 

Killua looked up, worried his words were too blunt, too ignorant. But Gon didn’t react, just stared back, waiting, eyes like mirrored pools. He didn’t speak, but there was an understanding there, and Killua wondered if there were similar tales about his people, how they bled their enemies with no remorse and adorned their campsites with the blades of the fallen. How savage might they seem to the enemy?

 

After swallowing, Killua said, “He made me fear them. I never had the chance to meet one of your people—except you—but I never wanted to, after what he told me.”

 

“Do you still believe him?” Gon asked, dipping his chin and peering at Killua from the corners of his eyes. “Are you still afraid?”

 

Folding his thumbs over one another, Killua stared at his knuckles, searched for the phantom bruises from his childhood, when punishment was violence, no warnings. “How could I be?” he said softly. “I know my father’s lied to me, manipulated me, and I’ve no doubt he’s twisted the truth about your people, as well.”

 

The fire lapped at the sand near his feet, but Killua kept them still, let the heat seep through the leather of his shoes. He didn’t look at Gon.

 

“But part of me wants to believe him,” Killua confessed. “After everything, he’s still my father.”

 

“After everything,” Gon said, just as softly, “he’s still the king, and he’s still our enemy. Don’t forget that, Killua.”

 

The low note of malice, directed not at Killua but something far larger than him, drew Killua’s gaze upward. He nodded in comprehension. He’d agreed to participate in the coup, to aid the destruction of his father’s chaotic empire, for the betterment of the world and his people. He would be a fool and a coward to back out now.

 

“I must give your father some credit,” Gon said, regaining his light tone. “My people have a tendency to attack without mercy in battle, and our methods are often seen as primal or bestial. It’s our culture.”

 

Killua paled. “But then—”

 

“However,” Gon said, “we rely on violence as a means to an end, and we only partake when the rulers of the country deem it necessary. Often, it is our opponents who wage war. We would be cowards if we surrendered, so we take up arms to defend our nation and our people. We are not savages, Killua. Those who strike first without proposing diplomacy, those who snatch our people and slit their throats, perch their heads on stakes so that the flies feast on their bloated eyes— _they_ are the savages. Not us. If we had the choice to be peaceful, we would. There has been enough death in our lands. Too many parents left without children, too many children without parents. We are a grieving nation, have been for centuries, and I want that to end. With you, Killua, it can.”

 

He reached forward to draw Killua’s hands into his own, cupping them, and he brought them to his face. He closed his eyes and pressed Killua’s knuckled to his eyelids, until Killua could feel the tremors in his fingers, in the unseen motion of irises.

 

“I believe you.” The words surprised Killua, but he moved his hands so that he could grasp Gon’s, as well, and held them tightly. “What we’re going to do is the best for our people. We all have to make sacrifices.”

 

He didn’t acknowledge the tightness in his abdomen at the thought of rejecting his father. He simply met Gon’s eyes, flickering gold in the firelight, and smiled to reassure them both.

 

By the time Canary and the others joined them by the fire, Gon had released Killua and rolled onto his side, facing the other way. Leorio snickered at the young warrior, mimed prodding his side with his foot, but Gon shifted enough to glare. Kurapika wrapped both hands around Leorio’s upper arm and dragged the shaken man away to a blanket on the opposite side of the fire.

 

“I’ll take the first watch,” Canary offered, planting her staff in the ground. She stood resolutely, all taut muscle and unwavering eyes, but Killua knew she had to be exhausted; she’d trained harder than any of his father’s soldiers, and without her, their success would be unlikely.

 

Before Killua could speak up, Kurapika shook his head. “No, you won’t,” he said. “I will keep watch. You need your rest.”

 

“I feel fine,” she insisted, setting her jaw. In the glow of the fire, her figure flickered and burned; Killua thought of a radiant phoenix, unable to die, burning endlessly, burning bright—but dismissed the comparison. She was not immortal. Strong, capable of slaying armies, but human.

 

Raising one hand, Killua drew her eyes to him. “Canary,” he said, and she faltered, shoulders tensing and fingers twitching. “We are all relying on you and your strength, and you know this. You need to rest. You’ll be no use to us dead.”

 

His words were harsh, but he forced himself to speak them, knowing Canary would not be swayed by pleas and compassion. He’d tried before. She stared at him, lifting her chin in recognition, as though resisting the urge to object. Finally, she sighed, raising her staff from the ground so that sediment fell like dust. “Very well,” she said, her voice clipped. “I will respect your wishes.”

 

As she settled onto the blanket beside Killua’s, he smiled at her; the expression wasn’t smug or righteous, just conveyed an overwhelming sense of gratitude, and she returned it before lying on her side, rigid but relaxed.

 

Drawing an arm across his chest to stretch his shoulder, Kurapika lifted his chin to address Killua directly. “Rest easy,” he said. “You’re in good hands. We’ll protect you with our lives.”

 

“That’s too much,” Killua blurted, covering his mouth at his explosive volume. “After everything you’ve done, I don’t want you to throw away your life just because you served my father, just because it’s your _duty_ —”

 

It was Leorio who interrupted with a shake of his head. “We’re well past duty, sir. Your lineage has nothing to do with our service anymore. We want you safe.”

 

“More than that,” Kurapika added, “we want you to rule. Our desires are not wholly altruistic, but I believe they’ll suffice to convince you of our devotion.” He slung the sheaths of his short sword over his shoulders and shuffled past Killua toward the opening of their campsite, lingering close enough to hear the continued conversation, at least until sleep overtook the others.

 

Lowering his gaze, Killua forced himself to accept their words as true, and to his surprise, the task took little effort. He thought of them spilling their blood for him—in a pledge of service, lying in the dirt amidst hoofbeats and the clash of metal—and clenched his fists to keep it from trembling. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “For everything you’ve done, and everything you have yet to do. For me and our kingdom.”

 

Leorio smiled enough to crinkle the skin at the corners of his eyes, and briefly, Killua thought he looked like a father. “Our pleasure,” he said, with the slightest of bows. “Now get some sleep, Your Highness. _You_ won’t be any good to anybody if you’re too weak to stand.”

 

“Haven’t you crafted some magical elixir that eliminates all ailments yet?” Killua teased, stifling a yawn.

 

“I’m an herbalist, not a miracle worker.”

 

“Then what am I paying you for?”

 

Grinning, Leorio leaned forward so that the fire illuminated his features. “Currently, you aren’t paying me at all.”

 

With a series of sharp, rapid nods, Killua grinned right back. “Seems appropriate. Keep up the good work, and I’ll double your salary.”

 

“Seems fair.”

 

Behind Killua, Kurapika spoke up. “Nothing doubled is still nothing, Leorio.”

 

Without hesitation, Leorio snapped, “I’m not an idiot. I’m just playing along.”

 

The laugh that burst from Killua’s lips startled him, but he let it run its course, hunching his spine and parting his lips until his cheeks ached. “I’m grateful,” he said, once he caught his breath. He rested his hands on his thighs, wrists upturned.

 

“For what exactly?” Kurapika asked.

 

“Everything. For your support and attitude. I haven’t felt like this in quite some time,” Killua confessed, staring at his palms. Even in the dim light, he could clearly see the scars there, scattered lines of varied depth and age, like faint reminders of how the skin beneath his clothing appeared, marred and littered with old, aching wounds. “It’s pleasant. I’d forgotten how much smiling could hurt. But it’s good. It is.”

 

“Well,” Leorio said warmly, cupping his cheek in hand, “let us hope that once all this is over, you can smile again and again. It’s what you deserve, Killua.”

 

Though Killua thought he’d been accustomed to the casual usage of his name, he couldn’t ignore the flush that crept onto his cheeks. He blamed the fire but knew it was embarrassment that compromised his thoughts. Familiarity was dangerous, but he loved the warmth, desperately wanted to cling to it.

 

Instead, he coughed, pressing a fist to his lips and averting his eyes. “I believe I’ve delayed the inevitable long enough,” he said, pulling the top blanket over his feet. “Be sure to rest, as well, both of you. You are essential to our plans. And I would hate to see you suffer.”

 

The last comment slipped through droning lips, and before either of them could respond, Killua repositioned himself so he lay on his back and stared up at the clear sky, letting his eyes shut just enough to feign the appearance of sudden sleep.

 

He was more frightened than he’d ever been; uncertainty was a far crueler villain than dungeons and wolves. Curling his fingers into fists by his sides, he suppressed a grin. As fearful as he was of his fate and the future of their kingdoms, he couldn’t deny the thrill that raised his skin and wet his eyes.

 

A new dawn was coming. With it would come bloodshed and chaos, and guilt irredeemable. In the stars, he pictured himself standing above his father, palms painted with blood, grinning.

 

Before he realized it, Killua had fallen asleep, having relaxed more than he’d been able to in months, with a slight, twisted smile gracing his slumbering face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually... don't know why I waited so long to post this chapter. This draft has been sitting in my documents for a few months, but I initially planned for this chapter to be longer and contain more plot-related things. But things happen, and sometimes the story takes over. I think it's for the best. That being said, this draft was written over the course of a few months earlier this year, so if there are any inconsistencies, I hope they're forgivable ones. Please continue leaving feedback, as I love hearing from you! And as always, thank you so so so much for reading!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a Hot Minute since I updated. I held off on publishing this chapter because it's short and I wanted to finish the next one before posting. So having actually upheld that for once, I'll be posting chapter 12 (which is also kind of short; sorry) later this week! Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Killua dreamt of war.

 

Visions of the future seldom plagued him, not since his untempered youth when nightly terrors roused him, but when they did, Killua found it difficult to forget. He had no proof they were divine, nor that the visions would manifest in reality, but each fateful dream left him soaked in sweat and trembling, his mind rattled.

 

In his dream, he saw the world awash with red, as though the sky was burning. He took this to be symbolic, fearing an alternative. On a cliff-side, stood his father, in all his regalia, the blade of his sword buried in the soil. Where the tempered steel pierced the ground, it seemed the earth was bleeding, spewing magma down into the ravine below.

 

There, bodies and blades clashed, and it was impossible to determine who fought for which side, or if there were any sides at all. The bloodshed was immense, puddles lapping at the heels of those who fought and shouted.

 

From where Killua perched, he was immobile. His father, on the other side of the ravine, turned to him, and there was blood pooling in his eyes, irises alight like fire. _You betrayed me_ , he said, though his lips did not part. _This is what happens when you cross me. You will never be forgiven._

 

He melted into the cracks, leaving his sword planted in the ground, and though Killua could not see what held him, he found himself falling into the fray, flailing. The masses fighting below him paused to look up at him, and on their faces, he saw only pain.

 

* * *

 

He awoke, just after dawn, to the sound of hooves pounding the dusty ground. The rhythm had not roused him immediately, but as the noise grew louder, his eyes flashed open to see the others at attention.

 

“Sir! Get up!”

 

At Canary’s hushed command, Killua leapt to action, drawing a dagger from the depths of his cloak. His hands shook from the remnants of his dream, and sweat dampened his collar. Still, he readied himself. Canary’s fierce and level glare, how even Leorio and Kurapika were at arms, forced Killua to truly acknowledge their situation. When he turned to find Gon, there was a stoicness present on his features that chilled Killua.

 

Returning his gaze to the mouth of the enclosed mountainside clearing, Killua swallowed, his mouth achingly dry. In his panic, he found it difficult to distinguish his heartbeat from the sound of hooves, and all at once, the noise became deafening.

 

And then, it stopped.

 

In the moments of silence that followed, Killua spared a glance at Canary who met his gaze with a hard, knowing look before she advanced, staff raised. Leorio flanked her, his knife flashing in the morning light.

 

Even steps crunched over the uneven terrain just out of sight, and Killua couldn’t decide if he should feel relief or terror. Had a single adversary ventured out to stop them? Had his father taken initiative and come to slaughter them all?

 

Around the corner, a tall, lithe figure emerged, hands raised with palms forward and a thick blue scarf concealing his face, and before Killua could identify the shadowed features, Gon leapt forward with a laugh.

 

“Kite!” he cried. “You made it!”

 

“It wasn’t easy.” He tipped his head in reverence. “You didn’t give me much notice.”

 

Killua stepped forward, instinctively pocketing his dagger. He knew Kite’s strength by reputation alone, but he sensed no malice. “Gon, explain.”

 

“Don’t get angry,” Gon said, which made Killua twitch with agitation.

 

“If I may,” Kite interjected. “I was sent to watch over Gon on his mission. When his imperative changed, I followed. My loyalty lies with him and our nation. But I have watched you grow, young Killua, and Gon trusts you. So you can rest assured I will not betray you.”

 

The word stung, surfacing flashes of red imagery seen only in a dream, and Killua shook the vision off. “Why didn’t you come with us when we fled?”

 

“I had to ensure a few loose ends were taken care of,” Kite said, eyeing Gon in a way that made Killua feel weary for him. “More than that… I’m afraid I bring bad news.”

 

Killua’s stomach sank. “My father?”

 

Kite nodded. “He knows you have left the kingdom, and he knows who has accompanied you. Fortunately, he believes you did not leave willingly, so you still have the upper hand in that regard.”

 

Biting down on his lip, Killua began to pace, etching a short path in the dust. “How did he find out so quickly? It’s not like him to keep such strict records of my whereabouts.”

 

Kite’s face grew grim. “Hisoka informed him of your absence late last night.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Killua turned to the others, accusation burning in his eyes. “That wasn’t what we agreed.”

 

Canary raised her hands in appeasement. “No, sire, it wasn’t. Hisoka was going to ensure Silva heard that you’d been kidnapped, but he swore he’d give us time.”

 

“Well,” Leorio said glumly, “he never said how much. Bastard’s always in it for the drama. We should have expected this.”

 

Gon darted past Kite, beyond the natural archway, and peered out into the distance, shielding his eyes against the morning sun. “It shouldn’t take us even a full day to reach the capital,” he said, jogging back. “The weather is good, and the horses have rested. Did Silva seem eager to send a search party?”

 

At this, Kite curled his hands into tight fists and sighed. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

 

His tone made the back of Killua’s neck sweat, and he fought to steady his breathing. “What do you mean?”

 

“I was tending to the night-blooming flowers when Hisoka revealed this information to the king,” Kite said, pacing himself. “Silva took it well, didn’t lash out or yell. He nodded, thanked Hisoka for his honesty, and then—”

 

Killua grit his teeth in anticipation. “Does he suspect…?”

 

But Kite shook his head, bearing his hands in a gesture of surrender. “As always, it’s difficult to say what the king was thinking. But it may be wise to assume the worst.”

 

Grimly, Killua nodded. “We should focus on reaching our destination. We’ll have a better chance of succeeding if we have some security. A stable base will be necessary.”

 

Gon approached Killua with an inquisitive glint in his eye, brows furrowed and head tilted. “What do you mean? Necessary for what?”

 

“You know my father’s temperament,” Killua said, “as well as his storied past. He is a king, true, but he is so much more. You, with your experience, should know of his exploits well—and you should, more than anyone, know to fear him.”

 

Setting his jaw, Gon crossed his arms. “Silva is a foe worthy of admiration, that much is obvious. But just because he has fought well doesn’t mean—”

 

“I haven’t been wholly honest.” The tightness is Killua’s chest made speech difficult, but he fought with labored breaths to confess. “Your identity struck me for more reasons than one. Yes, our nations have never been in agreement, but there is something else you should know.”

 

Gon closed his mouth and stared at Killua, awaiting his answer. Killua felt all eyes on him, though those who had been in his employ could not manage the contact for long, lowering their gazes to the dusty soil at his feet. They were privy to the same information, after all.

 

“My father finds sport in battle,” Killua said. “He has wanted to conquer your land for ages. All this time, he has drafted plans and sought counsel from trusted advisors, and he has been waiting for an opportunity to attack.”

 

The stoicism on Gon’s face faltered, only for a moment. Still, his resolve persisted. “And we’ve given him a proper catalyst, haven’t we?”

 

Killua offered a solemn nod. “Our nations are going to war. That is almost certain.”

 

Canary stepped forth, planting the end of her staff into the ground. The rigidity of her stature and the focus of her features reflected upon her prowess, both in combat and in strategy. “We should leave soon. It will be easier for us to craft a plan when we are not preoccupied with looking over our shoulders.”

 

“The king planned to send some of his scouts in the morning,” Kite said, casting his gaze to the sky. “They shouldn’t be able to cover as much ground as you have, but it would be wise for us to go.”

 

When the two of them turned to Killua, he stiffened. The journey so far had provided an equalizing effect, where Killua was not a leader nor a prince, just a companion. There were a few exceptions, of course, but lying in the dirt and dust alongside them all, fearing for his future, unsure of the might of his father’s rage—Killua had never felt more alive.

 

He nodded, returning to where he had lain to rest and knocking over the scarred logs remaining in the fire, kicking dust over the ashes. “There’s no place to go but onward,” he said, meeting Gon’s eyes and smiling. “Pack up your things. We have a long day ahead of us.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell, might as well post the next chapter now. Happy holidays! I'll try to update again before the end of the year, and maybe one day, we'll reach the end together. ^-^ Thanks for reading!!!

Only when their caravan descended down the mountain and onto a wooded road did Killua let the tension ease from his shoulders. He knew how impossible it would have been for his father’s scouts to locate them so soon, but then, Killua knew precious little about his father beyond the stories all children were told.

 

He could recount tales of Silva’s early battles, how he single-handedly slaughtered a battalion of raging, rabid foes, how he set clever traps that led to the swift demise of enemy troupes. Nearly all the stories involved bloodshed and war, and as Killua reflected on this, he realized he had no way of knowing what was true and what was fabricated.

 

What he knew of his father was based in fiction, spoken in the voices of strangers. The farther they drew from the castle, Killua began to understand just how little he really knew.

 

Under the shaded comfort of the trees, Killua emerged from his cloth cocoon, gasping in air as he freed himself from the wool tendrils. Gon eyed him as though offering a warning, but he subsided, sparing one glance at the road ahead before venturing back, beneath the canopy, to join Killua.

 

“Must be difficult to breathe under there.”

 

Killua coughed. He wanted to make a joke but found his lungs too weak to carry it. Instead, he nodded. “I’m not particularly fond of confined spaces.”

 

Gon nudged his shoulder, then devoted some energy to parting the cloth from around Killua’s neck, granting him space to expand. “Let’s be thankful you don’t have a condition of the lungs,” Gon said idly, sitting back on his heels. “You’ll survive the journey yet.”

 

“How much farther do we have?”

 

“Antsy, are we?” Gon asked, teasing. “Little prince isn’t used to waiting.”

 

Scowling, Killua leveled his stare until he felt that cold bluntness, like a dulled but heavy blade, settle in his eyes. “With my father behind us, time is an important factor. Delays should not be an option unless you’d like to drown in your own blood.”

 

“Well, I’d prefer not to.” Leorio’s voice, muffled through the canvas, emerged from off to the left of the caravan. He cleared his throat. “Kurapika and I scouted ahead. No traps or ambushes in sight. We should reach the gate within the hour.”

 

Gon cocked a brow, displaying a an open gesture of relinquishment. “There you have it,” Gon said. “Nothing left to do _but_ wait.”

 

Killua settled back into his nest, sulking to hide his nerves. When Gon slipped the blankets over Killua’s head, he stiffened before curling in on himself. What he felt, concealed from wandering eyes, was not quite shame, not quite fear, but something altogether unpleasant. He hugged his knees and laced his fingers to keep himself in place as their caravan trudged along.

 

Sounds muffled by the cloth, Killua focused on his breathing, the short and labored exhales. He had endured worse than this, of course, when locked in the musty dungeons, shielded from sunlight—a suitable punishment for disobedience, he supposed. There, each inhale felt as though littered with spores and spurs, and he had to fight the urge to claw at the stones near the ceiling just to attempt an escape.

 

To be sentenced to a week in the dungeons was common. For offenses such as sneaking bread after dinner, playing with Canary in the training yard, and frowning in his mother’s direction, Killua had been subjected to confinement and isolation. He went willingly, numbed to the concept. Only now, constricted for his protection and surrounded by those whom he found he could trust, did Killua realize how twisted that treatment was.

 

He raised one hand to his face, pressing his palm against his eye and brow bone to stave off the memories and the ache they brought. Sweat pooled at the intersection of his skin, and though he knew it was best to keep quiet, his mouth hung slightly agape as he panted into the fabric. Training his eyes on the texture and minute color disparities, Killua tried to control his thoughts.

 

A firm hand fell upon his shoulder, weighted through the blanket. At first, Killua thought that Gon had stayed by his side even after concealing him, and he covered his mouth to silence himself.

 

“Take it easy. Don’t knock yourself out,” Kite said instead, patting Killua through the cloth. “We’re almost there.”

 

Killua closed his eyes. The hooves of the horses pounded the earth rhythmically, and though he couldn’t parse the words, he could hear Leorio speaking idly to a disinterested Kurapika, based on the intermittent _mhm_ ’s he offered. Someone tapped impatiently on the base of the wagon, and based on the irregularity of the beat, Killua assumed it was Gon.

 

With his attention diverted to familiar external sensations, Killua found it easier to breathe, and time passed more smoothly, levelled with his steadying pulse.

 

When the wagon slowed its pace, Killua opened his eyes but remained otherwise still. As much as he longed to trust Gon’s word, they had entered what he had only known to be enemy territory. Killua had never fought in a war, ambushed supply caravans, or kidnapped nobles, but his father was guilty of many atrocities. A young man blessed with the blood of a war criminal would not be received kindly in any nation, let alone the capital of the kingdom that had endured the brunt of the cruelty.

 

The horses snorted as they stopped. Through the buffer of the cloth cocoon, Killua heard Gon rise, disembark, and speak.

 

“Grant us entry,” he said with surprising authority. “We have clearance.”

 

For a moment, Killua expected resistance. He braced his palms against the floor of the wagon and tilted his head to strain his ears, readying for an attack.

 

But none came. Killua reasoned that Gon had produced some impressive documents or sigils which validated his claims, and there came a sound of metal grating and shifting over earth.

 

“We’re entering the capital now,” Kite murmured as he knelt by Killua’s side. “Your patience is commendable.”

 

“Don’t patronize me,” Killua said, keeping his voice soft. “I expect none of you to ever bring up this pilgrimage again. Understand?”

 

“Of course, sire,” Kite said, sitting back. “Wouldn’t want to muddy the heroics of your story.”

 

Killua jabbed at him through the cloth, missing terribly, and though he couldn’t see him, Killua imagined Kite was smiling.

 

As the wagon pulled forward again and the gate to the capital swung shut, Killua caught the sounds of community filtering through the cloth. There was the laughter of children, the music of bells and string instruments, noises of commerce and budding industry. Knowing the dangers and knowing the risks, Killua fought against the smothering hermitage until he broke free, exposing his face to the fresh air once more.

 

Kite grabbed at the cloth without hesitation, determined to conceal the prince, but Killua held up a hand. “I’ll be careful,” he said, drawing his cloak over his head. The disguise was imperfect, but beneath the hood, he could have been anyone. “I know what’s at stake.”

 

“I’m not sure you do.” Gon had turned, elbow rested upon bent knee. His expression betrayed no emotion, and Killua stiffened with the fear of retribution; apparent apathy had become more threatening than fury. But Gon offered a small smile and shifted, patting the space beside him. “Come take a look.”

 

Disregarding Kite’s blatant disapproval, Killua eagerly crawled forward, keeping his head low. The light beyond the wagon’s boundaries was blinding at first, but as he squinted out at the road, his vision adjusted.

 

As the sounds had suggested, the city was lively. They crossed through what appeared to be a marketplace, full of vendors selling everything from roasting meats to woven baskets. A blacksmith hammered a blade rhythmically upon his anvil to the pleasure of a gaggle of children, and a contented baker absently plucked pieces off a loaf and slipped them to a plump dog with glossy fur. In a wide space between shops, a small bardic band gathered, merrily playing a song to which every member of the audience sang along.

 

These people were not wealthy. They bore markers of labor and sacrifice. And yet, in spite of the grime on their skin and the tears in their clothes, they smiled and laughed and danced as though being alive was enough.

 

The sight was strange and summoned an unpleasant swell of nausea. Compared to the atmosphere of his kingdom, this street seemed rich with culture and life. He had grown accustomed to the dingy misery that accompanied poverty, and he had been taught to ignore the signs of suffering, believing it to be necessary for their kingdom to thrive.

 

Killua’s mind felt heavy and murky all at once. The colors of beautiful tapestries and handcrafted apparel blurred and contrasted with the dusty road. Pressing a hand to his eyes, Killua grit his teeth and shook his head.

 

“Killua?” The concern in Gon’s voice was palpable.

 

“I’m fine.” He bit his tongue and tried to concentrate. Lowering his hand, he turned to Gon and smiled. “This is all a bit overwhelming.”

 

Sagely, Gon nodded. “I imagine it would be. I’m sorry for causing you so much stress. This journey couldn’t have been easy for you.”

 

“No, that’s not it,” Killua said. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

When Gon tilted his head, prompting Killua to elaborate, Killua turned his gaze back to the streets where a group of children chased one another, narrowly dodging a train of artisans carrying delicate pottery. The adults laughed, raising their work above their heads to permit the children to play around their ankles.

 

“This place is nothing like what I thought it would be.” Killua’s words fled like smoke through his lips. He hadn’t the thought to censor himself, but Gon laughed anyway, clapping a hand at the center of Killua’s back to rest his palm between his shoulder blades.

 

“I imagine Silva described this kingdom in unflattering ways,” Gon said. Despite his jovial tone, there was a somber note that undercut his words. “But we are not so barbaric as you were led to believe. We hold festivals and celebrations, and we have open markets every week. Our craftsmen are exceptional, and our bakers divine. You’ll see, Killua. We are so much more than the enemies your father has slain on the battlefield.”

 

Though Gon surely meant for his words to be a comfort, they twisted Killua’s stomach and made his skin burn as though from fever. He swallowed the bile that crept up his throat and wiped sweat from his forehead, nudging back the hood of his cloak in the process.

 

Gon moved before Killua could react, his free hand grasping the hem and tugging it back down. “Sorry, Killua. Just a precaution.”

 

Stiff, Killua kept his eyes trained on the road passing beneath them, following the small stones until they disappeared in the shadows. “Of course. My mistake.”

 

Canary, who had perched passively alongside him as she guided the horses, spared a glance in his direction, conflict apparent in the twitch of her brows. She said nothing, just tightened her grip on the reins.

 

“It’s too dangerous to risk anyone seeing you,” Gon explained, facing forward. Killua wondered if his shift was to demonstrate his resolve or to avoid Killua’s eyes. “I don’t know how they might react. The castle isn’t much farther. Please, just stay hidden until then.”

 

Killua bowed his head, curling his fingers under the edge of the wagon for stability. “If they knew who I was, would they want to kill me? Would they strike me down before hearing why I’ve come?”

 

Though he had proven himself to be adept at concealing his emotions, Gon’s hesitation—the sharp intake of breath, the ensuing silence, the shallow sigh—was painfully clear. Without looking at Killua, he brought his hand from Killua’s back to cover his hand, patting his knuckles before resting there as though to soothe. “I don’t know,” he finally confessed. “I don’t want to risk it. They’ve suffered a great deal at the hands of your father. He’s done terrible things, and I believe you’re aware of that now. It’s why we have to end his reign however we can. That’s the only way we can ever hope for peace.”

 

Under Gon’s grasp, Killua’s hand relaxed, fingers unfurling and splaying out over the edge. Killua lifted his head, ensuring his hood stayed in place with his free hand. He stilled, knuckles grazing the tangled mess of hair that fought to peek out from beneath its cover. “My brothers wouldn’t have to hide, would they?” he said. “Not like this.”

 

Gon offered a sympathetic smile. “You’ve certainly got royal blood, Killua,” he said. “No one could deny that. You look the part.”

 

“So I do.” His words felt hollow. With a reflexive nod, Killua drew his hand from beneath Gon’s before slinking toward the back of the wagon. He caught Canary watching him over her shoulder and directed his gaze toward the road ahead, suggesting she do that same. Even Kite said nothing.

 

Killua drew his hood over his face, tugging it down until it fell around his ears and shielded his eyes. He trembled and prayed all gazes were turned away.

 

Gon was right. It was best he stay hidden. He had seen paintings of his father in his youth, and though there were notable differences—the shape of his eyes and the coldness in his stare—Killua had no hope of denying his heritage. With his hands knit in the fabric near his head, Killua longed to tear out his hair and gauge out his eyes, if only to erase his physical connection to the king.

 

He was not the only child, nor was he the eldest. Yet it was Killua who earned the title of heir apparent, who would someday seize the throne. Silva was many things, and he valued tradition and legacy above almost all else. For him, Killua was the sole choice for his successor. Skills and political aptitude could be taught. Bloodline, the physical markers of royalty, could only be inherited.

 

Only Killua’s features bore that gleam of regal prowess, found in the hue of his eyes and the palor of his hair. Compared to the silken darkness of his siblings’ locks, his hair was like moonlight, a symbol of regality. Standing beside the others, Killua would be the sole child identified as the king’s blood.

 

Even now, as he moved to plot his greatest betrayal, Killua was still his father’s son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always, always appreciated~


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